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A True Story. I was down on the living room floor, playing with my mother’s old sewing machine. I was volunteering to work at the local Renaissance Faire (yes with an ‘e’) and was trying to make my own tunic like all the other Ren Faire nerds. Mom had been dead for a couple of years and Dad sure as hell wasn’t using it, so nobody minded when I ‘borrowed’ it. (A word which here means I walked right out with it, no intention of returning it, but still would not claim ownership of it). Great procrastinator that I am, the damn thing sat in the corner of our cruddy apartment’s living room, waiting patiently to come roaring to life all week while I did literally anything else. I’d spent that afternoon watching tutorial videos and reading how-to’s to figure out how I was going to turn the bolt of cloth I’d bought at the bougie crafts store in order to turn this into the real deal, (or as real deal as Ren Faires got). My girlfriend had been at work all day and I’d just picked her up and brought her home. Her car had broken down so there was only one vehicle between us while hers was in the shop. “Mind if I use the computer when we get home?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. I’d been acting like a vegetable all day looking at literally nothing of substance. I couldn’t even remember what I’d been doing before I got the call to come pick her up when her shift ended an hour early. I could remember being ever so slightly annoyed, but it was the kind of annoyance that comes from a place of privilege. I wasn’t annoyed at her for getting off work, I was annoyed that I’d lost another hour of procrastinating and doing nothing of worth. Now I’d have to make that damn tunic. Couldn’t be that hard. Could it? Of course it couldn’t. Those other nerds all did it. So could I. BUT I’d never had a lesson in my life. BUT I didn’t even have a card table, hence me being on the floor. BUT I had this intense but bizarre phobia of fucking up and needling a piece of fabric to my hand. Over and over again, I imagined feeding a strip of cloth into the machine and then slipping and mutilating myself. Highly unlikely, but who said phobias were rational? Certainly not me. So I’m there. On my belly. On the floor. Girlfriend is settling into our computer station in the corner of the living room. Got my pieces of fabric lined up and I’m turning the dreaded sewing machine on. I was going to DO this. I would not be one of those jerks that had to end up going to one of the more experienced costume makers and grovel for something that would take them less than fifteen minutes all told. It was a TUNIC! It was practically just a loose tank top with wider shoulders! How hard could it be? As the machine roared to life I started inching what I’d managed to (poorly) cut out towards that needle. I started to psych myself up. YES! YES! YES! I CAN WIN! I FEEL GREAT! CAN! DO! THIS! “HONEY?!” My girlfriend yelled over the machine. “HONEY?!” I stopped and prepared to roll my eyes. Great. I was being too loud or something. Never mind that I told her I was going to be working on my Faire sewing and she didn’t have a problem with the idea before. Doing my best to keep a civil tongue, I looked up from the beast machine I was trying to tame. “What’s up?” “What’s this?” Time had slowed down for me only once before. I’d been “sparring” with a friend (we were going through a martial arts phase) and he hit me in the nose. Mike Tyson was right: Everybody’s got a plan until they get punched in the face. It wasn’t quite the life ‘flashing before your eyes’ that the movies talk about; I just remembered this weird heightened sense of awareness and acute amount of detail as his fist came zooming for my schnoz. I saw it in perfect clarity, but wasn’t fast enough to do anything about it. So slow motion...and a lot of pain. Same thing here. I saw in perfect clarity what my girlfriend had been pointing at on the computer screen, every pixel branding itself into my eyes. Only instead of my nose hurting, my entire brain felt on fire. And just like that impact on my nose by my friend’s knuckles, the moment that image registered any and all plans I’d had for just such an emergency went out the window. On my computer screen were three strange women. They were smiling, giggling and posing for the camera. At least two had hair in pigtails. Another was wearing a big pink bonnet. One of them was wearing what could charitably be called a dress. The others were just in T-shirts. The one in the middle was sitting on her bottom, and her legs splayed open. She was leaning back with her legs so far up in the air I thought her a contortionist of some kind. And of course, all three were wearing thick white diapers. “What’s this?” My girlfriend repeated. Her tone was flat. Accusatory. She was the prosecuting attorney and had just shown the jury the most damning piece of evidence imaginable. She’d found my porn. She hadn’t even found it, I realized just then. As usual, I’d been surfing and looking at pictures of cute girls in diapers, not thinking about anything in particular except for the basest, most naughty thoughts. It beat sewing, that was for sure. Then I’d gotten the call to pick my girlfriend up early, and I was so thrown off my routine that I’d forgotten to click out and clear my browser history the way I always did when I was alone. She hadn’t found my diaper girl porn. She’d just stumbled into it. That’s still giving her too much credit. I left it right there for her to see and forgot about it. I was fucked. Unless.... I got up to my feet and furrowed my brow. I squinted to show not that I couldn’t see what was on the screen but that I didn’t quite understand it, or want to understand it. More people squint from suspicion, confusion, and disgust than any form of nearsightedness. It was a natural human reaction “Huh?” I said. “What is that?” Had to play this right. As my girlfriend-as far as anyone knew-I was a vanilla. The key to seeming like a vanilla is to take the disgust that you see other people have towards your kink and then project that onto yourself. I wasn’t disgusted or confused with any of those nameless girls on the computer; I was disgusted and confused with myself. “You tell me.” “Eww…” I said. “Eff if I know. Click out.” I gestured with my finger and swiped over to the corner rather than try to wrestle control of the mouse away from her. I wrinkled my nose, another telltale sign of disgust. “What site did you go to?” I asked. Yeah, gaslight-y and creepy I know. Desperate times. Desperate measures, y'know? My girlfriend looked offended. “I didn’t go to any site. It was here when I moved the mouse.” I drew back, and used the tightening of my throat to induce the feeling of nausea in myself. “Ugh,” I said. “Then what site did I go to?” I made sure to curl my upper lip in disgust. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed. She clicked out, and a little bit of tension left me. Had to keep the performance up. “Run the virus scanner,” I said. “Just in case.” “This was a virus?” I shrugged. “I guess so.” I was pretty computer illiterate. So was my girlfriend. “I went down the rabbit hole today looking for sewing tricks.” It was a half truth; an unrelated fact. “I can’t even tell you how many links I went on. Maybe one thing led to another led to another led to...to...that…?” I purposefully inflected that last syllable like it was a question. I had to seem pretty sure that that’s what happened, but not entirely sure. I had to explain an inability to replicate this feat, and ignorance was playing in my favor. “Okay,” she said. “I was worried. Running scan.” “Make sure to do the full one,” I told her. A full one always takes a couple of hours. Plenty of time for her to forget and for me to pretend to forget what had been on the screen. “Kay-kay” she said. I gave her a chaste kiss on the lips and went back to my feeble attempts at sewing. Bullet dodged. Everything you just read since “Unless…” was a complete fabrication on my part. It was the basic plan I’d had and imagined for the highly unlikely event that my girlfriend or anyone else ever found out I was an adult baby: Lie. Deny. Deflect. Feign confusion. Change subject. Move on with life. Ta-da! But to reiterate the Mike Tyson formula: Plan + Punch to the Face = 0. And those three diaper girls who didn’t exist to me outside of that website and my very real girlfriend, were at least worth four punches right to the nose. I was sitting at negative three plans. She was going to leave me. That’s what was going to happen. My girlfriend, my highschool sweetheart, was going to see right through me, was going to know that I was an ABDL, would leave me right then and there, tell her family, tell my family, tell our friends, and my life as I knew it would be over. I didn’t have any friends in the kink community. I was pure lurker. So when all of my vanilla friends found out and abandoned me, when my father cut me out of the will and stopped inviting me to Thanksgiving, when all prospects of me getting a good job or having a career or life were over with, it would all be traced back to THIS moment. This damn moment when I’d forgotten to ex out at what was at best a C+ tour section for a pay site that I wasn’t about to give my credit card information to. All because I’d forgotten to click out of the goddamn internet. Might as well get the crying started. I climbed to my feet. “I’m sorry.” My face was already starting to get red. “I’m so sorry!” I said it at least three more times while she sat there staring up at me. “I’m SO SO SORRY!” “For what?” she asked. She wanted a confession. She wanted me to confess my sins. “I was looking at porn,” I said. “That’s porn. That’s my porn…I’m so sorry.” I fell to my knees. I wanted to take her hands in mine, but I was too afraid to even touch her. She looked at the screen and back to me. She saw the three models in diapers and then looked at me on my knees; my hair a mess and my breathing shallow. “Are you into little kids or something?” That question. Of course that was the first real question she’d asked me. There was that look, that look of revulsion. “NO!” I almost shouted. “NO-NO-NO! Not at all! NO-no-no-no-no-no-no-no!” My mouth was a machine gun full of no. “Then what is this.” I sighed and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to have to look her in the face to admit this. I’d never planned on telling her this; on telling anyone on this. This was my take it to the grave secret. The thing that I had nightmares about people, especially her, finding out about. “I’m an ABDL,” I said. “What?” She’d heard me, but she had no idea what that meant. Those were just letters to her. Duh. I opened my eyes and looked at her. “I’m an adult baby.” “What’s that mean?” I didn’t show it on my face, but I was flabbergasted. How could she NOT know? All my life I’d known that what I’d wanted to be was a baby. I’d seen Baby Bottle Neck and practically preyed for conveyor belt nurseries so that I could ‘accidentally’ fall in one. I’d fantasized about slipping into alternate dimensions where people my age still went to daycares and were bottle fed in highchairs. Every girl I’d ever had a crush on would be in diapers with me whenever I’d bite my lip and close my eyes and every friend of mine would be in the nursery with me when I’d let my mind wander into the most basic of wish fulfillment daydreams. So five years prior, when I finally stumbled into the terms Adult Baby, I knew what it meant. It was blunt, and more than a little cringy (proven by how I was cringing just then) but it fit the description of my thoughts and desires. “It means,” I said… “It means that I like...like...girls in diapers and stuff, and like the idea of being treated like a baby, too. Sorry.” I was adding ‘sorry’ to all of my sentences like it was ketchup on an overdone steak. I was just trying to drown out the bad, burnt taste in my brain with unremarkable and bland, but still better tasting word sauce. “So yeah. Sorry. I like the idea of being treated like a...a...y’know...sorry….a” JUST SAY IT! “A baby…I like the idea of somebody treating me like a baby.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Wall of FUCKS. ALLLL THE FUCKS! There I said it. This is the part I’d been dreading. This is the part where she called me a freak, or a pervert, or a pedophile by proxy. This is where she locked herself in our room and I was left sleeping on the futon. Come next morning, we’d talk about how we were going to live beside each other and pay off the rent until the lease went up. She wasn’t a monster. She just couldn’t love me. She never really had loved me, come to think of it. She’d never gotten to see the real me. Instead, she asked me, “Why?” “Huh?” I was the computer that just learned the existence of a number outside of 0 and 1. WHY had never been a factor into any of these hypothetical discussions. “Why?” she repeated. “Why are you an...an…” she pointed to the computer screen. “That?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I admitted. “I think somebody fucked up my potty training or something…I wasn’t abused or molested or anything.” “And you don’t want to…?” She was kind enough to not say if I wanted to molest anybody out loud, but her silence and the look on her face finished the thought clearly enough. “NO!” I did not add a ‘sorry’ on to that. I was offended and a little bit hurt that she’d ask that and made no attempt to hide. She stood up and draped her arms over my shoulders. “So what do we do from here?” That elicited another “Huh” from me. I figured that she’d be calling the shots from here. Her? Door Locked. Me? Futon. Us? Broken up. Her? Time wasted. Me? Life ruined. Y’know. The usual. “Um…” I paused, my throat was dry and no amount of water was going to fix that just then. “What do you wanna do from here?” My life was in her hands and she was acting like she was the one who was afraid and hurting. How was that possible? “Do you…?” She said. “Do you still want to…” she paused. The words that she was thinking were just as hard for her to say as mine. “Do you still want to be together?” I looked at her the way a cow looks at an oncoming train. “Of course I do! Honey I’m so sorry. I’d never cheat on you. Never!” “Do you…” again she hesitated. “Do you want to bring anybody else in?” I blinked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She’d more or less caught me looking at fetish porn, now had my most embarrassing secret...and and...was offering me a threesome?! “Um...okay…” I said. “Sure.” “Who?” she asked. My mind went blank. This was like the big lottery question before the age of ‘I guess I better pay off all my debt’ was the practical and automatic response. Infinite possibilities. “I don’t know,” I said. “Can I get back to you on that?” She leaned in and kissed me on the lips. Her mouth was open and she slid her tongue past my teeth. “Sure, baby,” she whispered. She drew me in close. “But first, let me take care of something.” I was trembling. “W-w-what?” Slowly, gently, seductively, she whispered. “Let’s get those big boy pants off of the little baby.” She reached between my legs and grabbed my junk. I was instantly erect and gasping in shock. “Someone’s not wearing his diaper. I don’t want him to have an accident.” Grabbing me by the wrist, my girlfriend led me into our little room. I had to waddle because of the tent I was pitching in my pants. She pushed me down onto our mattress and straddled me, kissing me and moaning as we dry humped through our clothes. Before too long (and before my zipper left permanent marks on my dick) she stopped and dismounted. “Be right back. Gotta get you something.” She went over to my suitcase; my special suitcase. The one I buried under piles of old clothes in the back of the closet under the guise of being too lazy to hang my collection of comic book themed t-shirts up. Before she said anything more I knew where she was going to. I just laid there, my fingers digging into our old mattress as she worked the case’s zipper along the track. I knew what was in there. I’d hidden it in there long ago. And the fact that my girlfriend was now digging around in my old suitcase told me what she already knew. The whole thing with the computer had been a test. I HAD remembered to exit out. I HAD remembered to clear my browser history. My girlfriend, sneaky devil that she was, had rummaged around in my suitcase, found the diapers, done her own research and put me in a trap! That site was just the first (or at least most obvious) site that came up on Google at the time. Getting caught had been a test. A test that I had passed, apparently. Bambino diaper in one hand, and a travel sized bottle of Johnson’s Baby Powder, she sauntered back over to the bed. “Let’s get you dressed in something…” she paused for effect... “more appropriate.” The diaper and powder were laid down just long enough for her to unbutton and pull my pants down for me. Like a good (and horny) boy, I bucked my hips up so she could slide the diaper underneath me. I exalted in the feeling of the thick padding under my bum, and the cool baby powder on my cock. This felt so much better than me putting them on by myself. She pulled the diaper in up between my legs, taping each little strip of adhesive on one at a time. First the Tops. Then the bottoms. I was so physically aroused, that even the Bambino’s thick padding tented out in front. I looked adorable with those cartoon blocks just above my crotch; and from the way she was looking at me felt sexy. “Better?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Yes Mommy!” Reflexively, I started sucking my thumb while she rubbed the front of my diaper. We weren’t done yet. We’d barely gotten started. With one deft maneuver she took off her t-shirt. “Now how about some tittie, baby?” HOLY FUCK! How had she managed to take her bra off without me noticing?! I didn’t care. All I cared about was her tits bouncing in front of me, and dripping in milk. “Those hormones I’ve been taking finally kicked in.” She straddled me and grabbed the back of my head, shoving me towards her gorgeous tits. “Time to suckle.” AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Okay. Okay. I’m done messing with you. That’s not what happened at all. I didn’t have diapers in the closet. I was cohabitating with my highschool sweetheart, and I was too paranoid to tell her my kinks. No way would I have so much as a pacifier on my person at that time. We were both equally blind-sided, though in completely different ways. She didn’t know that this part of me existed, I never expected anyone (least of all her) to ever find out. The last true thing that you read was her asking if I wanted to invite someone into our relationship. “Do you…” again she hesitated. “Do you want to bring anybody else in?” I blanched, tasting a kind of cognitive bile in my mouth. “What? No! No! Why would you think that I…?” I didn’t even finish the sentence. It might’ve hurt me to finish it. We were monogamous. We’d seen poly units work, but we knew ourselves and each other well enough to know that it wouldn’t have ended well for us. Her asking if I wanted to stop being monogamous was practically code for ‘do you want to break up? “Of course I don’t!” The love of my life didn’t reply. She just gestured to the models on the screen; all smiley, giggly looking, and very obviously padded. Something clicked in my brain. “Do you think that…? That…? Do you think I want someone else?” Sullenly, she nodded. I melted inside. My heart vomited. “Honey, no!” I just started shaking my head. “Yeah, they’re pretty, but I’m not in love with them. I don’t even know them. I don’t even know their real names.” Come to think of it, I didn’t know their fake names. “So you’re not bored of me?” I hugged her as hard as I possibly could. “Not at all.” We didn’t talk for a few minutes. Just stood there, holding each other. The question didn’t go away. “Why then?” she asked. My skin started to tingle, and not in a good way. I wasn’t ready for this conversation. I was never going to be ready for this conversation. Deep down, even now, I wanted to shove this conversation in a tiny box and crush it with a giant hammer. But the truth was, I couldn’t. I had zero time. “Sorry,” I started up again. “I’ve always been like this. For as long as I can remember.” “Pre-puberty?” Because of course my girlfriend latched onto the porn aspect. Not that I could blame her. It was all she’d seen. I nodded. “Pre-puberty. Puberty added in a few more complications...but yeah. Pretty much as soon as I was...y’know...potty trained...and a” I paused to make air quotes, “big kid...I’ve wanted to go back to being a baby on some level.” Damn it felt stupid saying this out loud. No wonder she was going to leave me. I really was a freak. Then she said something that caught me off guard. “So this has been a part of you? Even before we met?” It sounded like she was coming to her own realizations. “Yeah...sorry.” I felt like I was setting a world record for the s-word. She frowned. “So you’ve been afraid to tell me? All this time?” I looked away. “Yeah. Sorry.” This time, she at least had the decency to not ask me why. I didn’t think she understood, but she knew me well enough to know when she was pressing all the wrong buttons. “Would you want me to wear diapers?” she asked again. Truth be told, I’d thought about that particular scenario on more than one occasion if you catch my drift. Still, hearing it come out of her mouth and so brazenly sounded like it was coming out in a second language, one I could understand the gist of but wasn’t comfortable enough speaking out loud. “I mean...that’d be kinda hot,” I admitted. “Would you want me to pee in them?” The look in her eyes was one of extreme distaste. Wetting her pants was definitely not her scene. “Oh no! You wouldn’t have to do that!” I insisted. “No. Not at all.” That part was kind of a lie. The fact that my real life flesh and blood girlfriend had just said that she’d be willing to pad up for me was a bigger stretch than I’d dared imagine. I wouldn’t have forced her to do anything she didn’t want to do...but yeah...no way would I have objected if she’d offered. “Okay…” she said. “Would you want me to call you Daddy?” Fire alarms blared in my brain. I was a lot of things. A ‘Daddy’ was not one of them. “No-no-no-no…” She looked confused more than hurt. “I like being the baby…” Again, my girlfriend gestured to the pics on our computer. There hadn’t been any guys pictured. All I could do was look away. “I’m pretty sure I’m still heterosexual,” I said. “Pretty girls in...in... fetish gear.” I swallowed. There. I said it. I had a fetish. Boom. Fuck off. The rest of the night was quiet. We didn’t talk much other than for every “I’m sorry” (which I said a LOT of) she said “It’s okay.” Plenty of awkward silences. Watching T.V. More silence. No small talk. I’d completely given up on sewing that night. I’d just have to beg one of my Ren Faire friends to hook me up. I was helpless as far as that went. As helpless as a...well, you know… I didn’t sleep that night, either. I just laid there in bed, tossing and turning. Closing my eyes for a sleep that just wouldn’t come. The clock was not my friend. Neither was the sun. I just kept playing things over and over again in my head: What I should have said. What I might’ve fantasized about happening, (both of which you’ve read). My tired frame was screaming for sleep, but my brain just wouldn’t hit pause long enough for it to happen. I lost consciousness at some point, but it wasn’t what I’d called sleep as much as my body finally giving out despite my fevered mind’s protestations. She was gone when my eyes opened. The keys were still on the hook, but she was gone. I called her name and received only the faint echoes of our tiny apartment in reply. On the computer, a word document was left open for me to see. All it said was: A friend gave me a ride back to Mom’s. I’m sorry. I just sat there, staring at the computer, blinking. The real shock of it hadn’t hit me yet. And it never did. Because when I really woke up, it was because she was closing the door behind her and hanging the keys to our one remaining car back up. “Morning,” she said, a big goofy grin on her face. “I got something for you.” My head rattled around. “You’re still here,” I said. Out of all the things I’d imagined happening, seeing her after that last night wasn’t one of them. It literally hadn’t occurred to me. I’d been running this scenario over and over in my head for as long as I’d known enough about myself to realize that I wasn’t ‘normal’. “Oh yeah?” I asked. She had a Wal-Mart bag in her hand. She’d done some shopping. Like a cat bringing home a dead lizard she shoved the bag in my hands. “Open it!” I did. From out of the nearly white translucent bag, I withdrew a package. Ugly leaf green packaging. A generic picture of a waist that could have been a manakin, the adult diaper drawn on it as well. “Depends.” I said. “You got me Depends.” She grinned. Full teeth. Proud of herself. “Surprise!” They weren’t even the kind with the tabs. Just a package of Pull-Up granny panty briefs. Ugly packaging on the inside, and plain, ugly Depends on the inside; stuff that belonged in nursing homes more than nurseries. I still gave her a hug. “This isn’t exactly what I’m into,” I explained. “But thank you. Thank you so much.” I kissed her on the forehead. Then the lips. Then deeper. “I thought you liked diapers,” my wonderful, loving, understanding girlfriend, said. I looked at the packaging; the literal punchline on most every abdl site when discussion of diapers came up. “Yeah...but not these. But this is a start.” I’d have to show her some websites later. “A good start.” “I’m trying.” She leaned in for another kiss. “I wanna help you.” A second later she gasped. “Shit!” I felt a fresh jolt of panic. “What?! What?!” “I forgot to get wipes!” I huffed more than sighed, but it was still an immediate release of tension. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to wet them if you don’t want to.” She booped me on the nose. “I’m not going to be the one wearing them…” “Oh?” “I might’ve googled a few things,” she grinned. “Tell me more about being a Mommy…” This is normally the part where I’d tell you that this was the end, but that wouldn’t be true. Alternatively, I’d finish with “This was just the beginning,” and while accurate, it’s just so boring. Instead, I’ll just say that there are more stories: Lots of ‘em. Some are true, like what you’ve just read. Others only happened inside my head and involve people who aren’t me. But from here on out, you’ll have to settle for the ones from my imagination. The rest I’m keeping to myself.

Ok so My earliest memory is from when I was about 3 and it was tipping over the play pin so I could crawl out I rember the first time I tipped it over by standing up in the play pen and slamming belly first into the side bars of the play pin and wasn't hanging on to anything I remember getting thrown across the living room carpet and very bad carpet burn its when I first learned about gravity the second time I remember holding on to one side of the rails and slamming backwards into the wooden play pin that time the play pen busted into a million pieces and I got the worst spanking ever Which brings me to the questions A. does anyone else rembered tipping over the playpin when they were little and B. did they get punished for it C. did the play pin survive