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Even as a little girl, I realized that something was different about me. I know I was preoccupied with my bodily functions. A very early memory is my mother putting pull-ups on me for a trip. I protested because I had been in panties for some time and already had a concept of things considered infantile. Above all I didn't want to be called a baby. My mother acted as if I was crazy and held me by the arm and forced me to put on the pants. My pleas and tears fell on deaf ears and I remember sulking in the back seat and hoping no one would see me in a diaper. Before long nature took its course and I began to have to relieve myself. I waited as long as I could before I asked to use the restroom. My mother laughed and just told me to go in my pull-ups. "That's why you are wearing them," she said. I distinctly remember the warmth seeping around me and the engorged diaper material pressing between my legs. I don't remember anything after this, whether my mom changed me or put another pull-up on me, but this one act altered my whole concept of what I had been taught. My toilet training had impressed on me that only babies used diapers and big girls always went in the potty. Now my mother was telling me that it was OK to go potty in my pants and that diapers were acceptable at times. My whole world seemed to be turned upside down. Now, I was fascinated. Before long I began asking my mother to let me play with diapers, putting them on and even wetting them on occasion. She seemed not to think this at all strange or out of the ordinary. And we still had diapers in the house even though I was an only child and more than four years old. The idea became cemented in my mind that wearing diapers was all right, even enjoyable, and that they could be used for playtime. When I was 5 my boy cousin visited. I had a little plastic doctor kit and I brought it out to use on him. We played in a conventional way, doing an examination, but this soon grew tiresome. I decided that we needed to do a more thorough exam. I got him to pull down his pants so I could see his penis. I had him bend over and I put the plastic thermometer in his little bottom. He promptly went and tattled to my mother and in retrospect, I can see she didn't know what to do about the situation. I wound up being made to stand in the corner for a short time and then all seemed to be forgotten. Soon I began to have dreams. I imagined things before I went to sleep. I began to relish the drowsy time before I drifted off. Rows of children were bent over and machines spanked them. Tubes from boy's penises were routed into their rectums. Boys and girls stood in a line, naked except for white plastic pants. Children wiggled and danced in desperation before they wet themselves. I didn't know what these dreams meant. They gave me a warm and relaxed feeling. These fervid dreams put me to sleep each night. When I was seven I had chickenpox. I felt miserable and languished in bed for three days. I couldn't do anything. I think the doctor prescribed something to tranquilize me to keep me from scratching. One scene replays over and over in my mind. I was taken from my bed in my nightgown. Two straight-backed chairs were set side-by-side in the bathroom. My father was seated on one of them and was holding a kidney basin with a red rubber bulb-shaped thing with a black plastic tip. I felt so horrible and sick that I put up no fight when my mother sat down next to my father and I was laid lengthwise across their laps. I felt my cheeks being spread open. The cold tip went into my bottom. A rush of something began to fill me up. Again and again I felt myself getting fuller and fuller. I wanted it to stop, but my head was swimming. I was carried to the toilet and I felt slippery and squirmy where the thing had gone in my bottom. It seemed like I was exploding when I had a movement, like my insides were coming out. Oddly, when it was over, I felt better. But when I went back to bed a few minutes later, I accidentally messed myself. My mother was upset. She stripped me down and pulled all the sheets off my bed. "Don't you move!" she warned. She cleaned me up like a little baby. Having an enema forced on me was a little bit like being raped. I mean, it was totally out of my control. Someone else was intruding on my body without asking. Then I was made to feel like an infant because I had an accident. I was confused beyond measure. My first orgasm came when I was wearing thick cotton training pants that I had stolen from the little neighbor boy. It seemed like my body had taken control over my mind. I couldn't stop rubbing myself until I felt like I was turning inside out. I lay panting and drenched in sweat. Immediately I felt guilty. Was something wrong? Had I hurt myself? Was my body supposed to do that? I was convinced I was dying. I almost came asking my parents. I lived in anguish and torture for quite a while until I discovered that other little girls masturbated, too, and that it was very common. My inner life took me to sexual gratification each day after school. I fantasized about the little boys in my class. I imagined them in agony needing to go to the restroom. I could see them sitting at their desks and squirming until they wet themselves. At the same time I would climax. I outgrew the diapers we had around the house and my mother threw them away. My friend had a slumber party. I learned that one of the girls was a bedwetter. I was entranced. I could see her protective underpants through her pajamas. I wanted to be close to her, to touch her, to feel her diaper. I wanted to be her, to be inside her. What was it like to wet at night? Thinking about having to wear diapers for wetting uncontrollably made me feel hot and funny. After going to great lengths to befriend the bedwetter and being invited to her house, I was able to get one of her bedwetter pants. Oh! I was in ecstasy. I could hardly wait to get home and into my own room. I ran upstairs and slammed the door. I whipped my clothes off and with that first feel of scratchy/papery pull-up, I was in heaven. What snug comfort. What bulk and padding between my legs. The feeling made me incredibly horny. That was the first time I got off in a diaper. I wore those pullups until they were literally falling apart. I put them on each time I pleasured myself after school. I hid them carefully so my mother wouldn't find them. I never got a chance to wet them, but I fantasized about it. I couldn't get any diapers, so I tried something else. I put on layer after layer of panties. I loved the bulky feeling and the way it forced my legs apart. When I tried to masturbate it was like I was wrapped in insulation. I could barely feel myself. I loved the tension and effort it took to climax. But I wanted more. It occurred to me that I could simulate an accident by drinking a lot and trying to hold it. I planned for a week or so and then one afternoon I started with a tall glass of water. I was wearing a tank top and yellow shorts. I had on about 10 pairs of underpants. I kept drinking and wondering if anything was ever going to happen. When I started to feel full, I wandered over to a grove of trees across the street from our house. I brought a water bottle with me and continued to drink. I held it as long as I could. I was hoping that my body would just decide to pee on its own, but that didn't happen. In fact it was just the opposite. When I tried to go, I couldn't. Very painfully, I pushed out a drop or two. I had waited too long. Disappointed, I tried to relax and be able to relieve myself. I went back home and for the rest of the afternoon I had to pee about every twenty minutes. I began to have a collection of things that I used to help me masturbate. One of my prized possessions was a pair of little boy's underpants that had been wet and left in the park. They were visibly stained in the front and even smelled vaguely of pee after being stored for months. I had the training pants I had stolen. I had a little blue bulb syringe that I could use to give myself enemas. I imagined what it would be like to be a boy with his little penis and wetting his diaper. I made a fake penis that I could wear in my underpants so I could feel what it was like. I wished I could make it so I could pee through it like a boy. I kept that pseudo-phallus in my collection too. I turned to petty crime. Before I had only taken things from people's homes, but now I went to a local department store. I discovered that they sold toddler sized plastic pants. I put my nose close to them in the display and smelled the virgin vinyl. I knew I had to have a pair. I planned and plotted and tried to summon up my courage. To just buy a pair was out of the question. I knew I had to steal them. I decided I would just do it. I walked casually by the display and took a pair. I walked around the corner and tucked them inside my jacket. I grabbed some Milkyway bars and paid for them at the counter. I walked right out the front door. Nobody even noticed! I loved those baby pants. They were snug and it felt like I was encased in plastic. I wore them under my panties to dinner that night. They were hot and sweaty and made me feel slippery. I took them in the shower and discovered more slipperiness. I put the soap inside and lathered myself. The incredible sliddery, slithery feeling made me weak in the knees. I pulled the waistband open and let them fill up with warm shower water. It was like I was walking in a water balloon. I climaxed over and over and had to lean against the wall in the shower and hold myself up. I began to be wracked with guilt. Stealing was naughty. Masturbation was naughty. Keeping secrets from your parents was naughty. Thinking naughty thoughts was naughty. I was naughty. The girls at school were beginning to talk more and more about boys. There was a boy I liked. But I wondered, "what would he think if he knew I wore plastic pants or liked to give myself enemas?" I was paralyzed. Who could I talk to? My parents had never understood me. I had no brothers or sisters. I hid my real life from my friends. I was sure there was nobody else like me in the world. I despaired. I tried to break my masturbation habit, but whenever I got tired or blue I was drawn magnetically to the pleasure and release I could give myself. It continued day after day. I felt worse and worse. I made a big miscalculation. Seeking ever more gratification, I decided to take some laxative to see what would happen. I did this on a Friday night. By Saturday evening nothing had happened and I pretty much forgot that I had ever done anything. That particular Sunday, my mother wanted me to go to church with her, something that rarely happened. I was required to wear a dress and tights. On the way to the service, my insides clenched. I uncontrollably messed my panties. I was in shock. I told my mother that I had an accident. I had to sit in my own excrement all the way home. By the time I made it to the bathroom I had brown streaks down the back of my tights and my panties were ruined. To my utter embarrassment, my mother made me undress in front of her and she had me rinse out my own clothes in the sink. I learned to be careful what I did. I also learned what I liked and didn't like and that clean up can be a bitch. I began to get breasts and hair. I longed to get my period and have to wear a pad. I thought it would be like a diaper. I took them from my mother and wore them around the house. I could wet them a little bit, then I would rub myself until I reached climax. Much to my dismay, I found my period uncomfortable and having to wear sanitary protection a pain. Something amazing did happen one time when I visited my grandmother. We were talking about girl things and she began telling me what girls used to have to wear for protection years ago. "Wait a minute," she said. She went and got a belt and a bag of thick Kotex napkins. "Try one on if you want," she said, "See how much better you girls have it today." She let me keep them and I added them to my collection. I was enthralled with boys and their penises. I wanted to be a boy and wet myself. I devised a strap-on attachment and wore it in my pants. I amassed an assortment of boy's clothes and I would put them on. I lay back on my bed with my boy's pants and underpants down and I pretended to masturbate with my fake boy's penis. I could feel it in my own clitoris and I could climax. It made me feel like a boy. Disaster struck. I was masturbating in my room with my boy stuff. In the midst of my frenzy, the door opened and my mother caught me in the act. She summoned my father and he surveyed the scene. I was twelve years old and immediately ostracized by my family. Within days I was packed up and shipped off to an "academy" for girls. But that is the next part of my story.