Growing Up Part I: We All Gotta Start Somewhere...

There may be more classifications of AB/DLs than there are brands of diapers. 

AB. TB.

DL.

Furry. Puppy. 

Sissy.

Li'l Bro. 

Need I go on?

In the end, no matter which of these categories we fall into, each of us who choose to wear diapers do it for one reason: we love the way diapers make us feel.

And, for most of us, it's pure instinct. 

Nobody approached us and said "I see you're wearing Hanes cotton ribbed briefs. Here, try this Depend belted undergarment instead."

Nobody had to; for many of us, at varying ages, we came to the realization that we were meant to be diapered, and just put one on again. 

Maybe we were ten and snuck a sibling's diaper; maybe we were thirteen and slyly pulled a Pamper out of that opened pack at the store (there's always one, lol...); maybe we were in college and just went out and bought a bag. 

At some point our need to be diapered took over, and we were wearing again.

My story is a little different. I never actually stopped wearing diapers.

When I was a little boy, maybe five or six years old, my brother and I used to wear cloth diapers - yea, environmentalist parents, I know - during playtime.

Seems weird, I know. 

But it doesn't seem weird at all when you're five or six.

You remember running around the house in your Underoos, pretending to be Batman, Spidey, or Superman, right? Well, we did that too. But more often than not, we'd beat the summer heat by putting on cloth diapers and running around the house and the yard. 

And we thought nothing of it.

Thinking back, it probably didn't seem that strange to my parents; it was hot, we had no A/C, and there were still a lot of diapers around the house, left over from when we were littler.

At some point, though, they decided that we'd outgrown diapers.

I'm not sure if they had a discussion about it, maybe carefully considered the consequences of allowing their children to wear diapers... or if one of them just said "Guess it's time for the boys to grow up." 

I was probably six. And I still remember the day I went to the diaper chest, opened it, and found... towels. 

Ummmm? Are we missing something???

That was the day I discovered that I need diapers.

Picture being six years old, and longing to be put back into diapers. You don't know why you want to wear them. You know that you're too old to use them. Yet you don't care; you just want to wear them. 

You feel jealous of your little cousins; they still get to wear them. You see Luvs commercials on television and want to climb into the TV. 

At least, that's how I probably was. I suffered for a few years, I'm sure, but truthfully, I don't remember much of it. It's all a blur. I probably stopped missing them as much. Maybe I stopped thinking about them at all. Who the hell knows. 

I do know that, a few years later, when my cousin was born, his parents began leaving him at our house on weekends. Out came the crib. Out came the highchair. Out came the toys. And out came... drumroll please...

...packages of diapers in every shape, size, and color. 

And, my beloved cloth diapers. 

The entire time my cousin was in diapers, so was I. Only, my parents didn't know. 

The crib was near my room and, at night, when nobody was looking, I'd swipe a diaper and duck into my room. It was stealth mode for little Cwis: I was so afraid of being caught I grabbed the top diaper in one fluid motion and made it into my room without stopping. We're talking ninja action here!

I still remember how even pulling the diaper apart seemed loud as hell. Untaping the diaper - I was sure someone would hear and come to find out what I was doing. I became the quietest diaperer in the history of the world, I think; I could put on a Pamper without so much as a crinkle.

And I did, nearly every night. My plan was foolproof! In the morning I'd wrap the disposable diaper hella tight, tape it all up into a little ball, and drop it in the diaper pail. Who would ever guess it was ten year-old Cwis's diaper? Nobody! 

I was in diaper heaven.

As my cousin grew, so did I. And one day I found that his diapers no longer fit me. I still remember coming to the sad realization that I'd outgrown diapers. I remember trying to stretttttch that diaper - and listening to it tear. I was angry! I wasn't ready to be done with diapers. It wasn't fair! I even tried the cloth diapers; they, too, were a tiny bit too small. Ever been stuck with a diaper pin that sprinnngs open because you tried to break the laws of physics to wrap a diaper around your adolescent ass? I have. It huwts!

The crib remained. The diapers remained, only I couldn't wear them. And, again, I spent time without diapers. And that time, again, was a blur.

The instinct was clear, however; I wanted desperately to wear diapers.

My life was not at all stress-free when I was a child; I found that I not only liked the way disposable diapers felt physically, I liked how they made me feel: safe, and secure. As long as I was wrapped in a Pamper, snuggled under my covers, I was safe.

I wanted to recreate that feeling as often as possible. Every night. I missed it!

I think I was eleven or twelve when my desire to wear diapers finally got the best of me, and I created my own.

More on that in a minute. 

I know I'm not alone in this. For a long time I was afraid to admit that I did this. I was ashamed. It was like diapers were crack cocaine to me, right? Who makes their own diapers???

I now know the answer: a lot of us. Okay, so you didn't. Of course not, LOL. 

But a lot of us did. And it wasn't until recently that I found out how creative some of us are. Now I'm a little bit proud of my own creativity... and I chuckle at some of the homemade diapers I hear about. "I could do better!"

So, anyway, yea. I made my own diapers.

Picture it. A garbage bag. A roll of extra-wide masking tape. (Later, duct tape... trial and error, thanks). Paper towels... first rigid and later, owww! softer. Toilet paper... later, Kleenex. 

Put them together and you have a diaper. 

Hefty brand diapers. They're no Huggies, but they do the job. 

So I began manufacturing diapers. They got better as I went along. They were clumsy and loose at the beginning; by the end I could probably have sold my secrets to Procter & Gamble. I'd make a diaper and store it between my mattress and box spring. Sometimes I'd make more than one. My stash. 

And I learned how to diaper myself reallllly quietly. Even with a damn garbage bag diaper, I was a champ!

One day some company came out with 'tall kitchen bags' - in white. I'd been wearing black diapers. Not that I'm complaining; black diapers are dope. Not sure why they don't come in black and white. Anyway...

...I started wearing white diapers. And they actually fit. I like diapers snug, and Hefty diapers aren't. Tall Kitchen Bag Brand Diapers are snug, and way more realistic. 

So, as pathetic as it sounds, I was in diapers again.

As I got older, diapers weren't enough. Once I'd been able to lay in bed, in a diaper, and feel little. As life got more stressful, into my adolescent years, I had to reach farther to get back to where I wanted to be. I began to incorporate pacifiers and teething rings into my nightly routine - careful to put them back where they belonged in the morning. 

I'm not going to lie: there were times that I felt like a perv. 

At age eleven, twelve, thirteen I'm strapping garbage bags to my bum, taking baby stuff to bed, and wondering: what the FUCK is wrong with me?

Those are tumultuous years, emotionally, for a li'l kid. What had seemed so natural at age four, five, six was so unnatural just a few years later. I felt guilty. Ashamed, even.

That all went away on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 4:30 p.m.; that was when my parents took my brother to practice for whatever sport he was playing at the time. 

From 4:30 p.m. until about 7:55 p.m. I had the house to myself. 

And it was toddler time for Cwis.

I remember getting home from school and getting straight to my homework; I wanted to everything out of the way right away, and there was no time to waste. In retrospect, my parents must have wondered how their son was so consciencious three nights a week, and not so much the other two; if they did, they never mentioned it.

At 4:30 it was time for everyone to go. I'd listen to everything as I worked, anticipation growing; my brother would grab his gym bag, check it, zipppp it closed. My father would click the side door lock to make sure things were secure. My mother would grab her purse, rummage through it, get those keys. Jingle, jingle... and I'd start to tingle. It was almost time to be two again!

Every night, the same offer would come.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?"

I was sure. Trust.

They'd leave. I'd listen to the car stop at the end of the driveway, then vroom vroom again. I'd give it five minutes; every once in a while something might be forgotten, yet remembered within a minute or two. The first close call taught me to give myself some cushion time.

I'd go up to my room and get my materials out of my closet. Garbage bag... check. Tape... check. Kleenex... check. Paper towel roll... check. 

I'd lay the garbage bag out on the bed. I'd carefull lay the Kleenex in place; I'd actually perfected a technique to keep them from sliding around as much - sad but true, lol. I'd put the paper towels exactly where they belonged, tape them perfectly, and, voila! I'd have a diposable diaper. 

I'd lay down, positioning my bum smack-dab in the middle of the bag, pour baby powder all over myself, and tape that shit tigggght.

Then I'd walk - or, more accurately, waddle haphazardly - across my room, and into the hall. 

My journey was over in twelve feet: my old crib, set up for my cousin's weekend visits. 

I'd put the rail down, carefully climb in, curl up, put my thumb in my mouth, pull the rail up, and be exactly where I wanted to be. As I think back, it was the only place I felt truly comfortable. 

I remember many, many evenings from my childhood, wrapped up in my homemade diapers, laying with a bottle and a pacifier, looking through those bars. I was a little too heavy for the crib, I'm sure, and I remember having to move slowly and be careful for fear something would break. Would my parents realize I'd been laying in their crib if they came home and it had collapsed? was a thought that frequently ran through my head. But, save that one little inkling of stress, I was - for the only time during that time of my life - in a stress-free zone. 

I was, for three hours, three nights a week, a little boy in his crib.

I remember challenging myself to remain in that crib the entire three hours. Getting in and out was too much like being twelve, I told myself; if I was two I'd have to stay in. 

So I did. If I was hungry, I brought a snack with me. If I was thirsty, I'd bring a bottle. And if I had to wet, I soaked my diaper. But anything that needed to happen in that three-hour period happened in that crib. 

Sometimes the phone would ring. And ring. And ring. And ring. And ring again. I'd listen to it. There was no way I was climbing out to answer that thing. That was just a call for the grownups, right? I missed out on a sub once, because my father had called to get my order when they stopped and couldn't reach me. "I thought you were already asleep" he said as they each ate their subs. "No, Dad. I was two," I thought to myself. Grr, Cwis was hungwy, too!

Every night I'd lay in 'my crib', drinking cold juice and, eventually, producing a warm, wet diaper. Then I'd lay in my diaper, sloshing around a little, and dream. I was careful to stay awake, of course. But I'd transport myself to a place where that crib was my prison, and I was its resentful prisoner. I wanna get out! I'd think. Truthfully, that was the last thing I wanted.

And it was with reluctance and resentment that I eventually climbed out, traded my 'Pampers' for pajamas, and shoved my fake diaper way down into the trash to await the fam's return.

I had a system: I'd turn on the television, loud enough so I could hear it yet soft enough so I could hear a car pull into the driveway. (Sneaky!) I'd turn it to the same channel every night. 

Bringing a watch to bed with me was to accept defeat: I was two! I didn't need to know what stinkin' time it was!

In reality, I did need to know. The cleanup and changing took five or ten minutes, and it needed to be completed before that car rolled into the driveway. If someone came home and found me wrapped in a Cinch Sak not only would I feel ridiculous, but I'd probably be going to some sports practice three nights a week from that point forward. I had to preserve my crib time.

I'd listen through my shows. To me, it was sort of like being little - the grownups watching TV off in the distance while I suffered (hehe!) in my crib, not allowed to climb out. Seems real, right?

I'd hear Three's Company. I'd hear The Jeffersons. They were still being played in the evening, in reruns. And when I heard They're Movin' On Up! it was time to move on out. 

Thanks to George and Weezie, I was able to preserve my right to regress for as long as I needed to. 

By the time I was fourteen I'd discovered that, if I got on my bicycle and pedaled, I could get away from home. So on weekends I'd get up Saturdays and go somewhere. I'd come back late at night, or find an excuse to stay overnight with friends. Sunday was a repeat. 

I felt pretty independent. 

During my rides I'd wind up all over. In towns twenty miles away. 

It was in one of those towns that I walked into a pharmacy to get some diaper rash cream - saddle sores, a term any cyclist knows, lol. And, walking down the aisle towards the cream, my eyes fell on something that brought me to a halt. 

Wtf?

Depend?

Wtf are these?

And, all at once, I felt like an absolute cretin.

I was cutting and pasting Pampers at home. And here, on a store shelf, were 'disposable incontinence briefs'. 

Adult diapers.

To Be Continued...

What It Feels Like To Be A Baby

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Experiences: Introduction

Think about diapering the freshest, dopest, hottest guy you've ever seen.

Imagine being into guys, and slapping a diaper on the thuggiest, most homophobic 'wigger' around. Watching that swagger change when he's wrapped in a Pamper.

I've diapered more than sixty-five guys since I finished college. 

About a dozen were ABDL. People I met from websites, mostly. People into diapers, age regression... the fetish.

A half dozen or so were friends. Straight dudes I'm close with who wanted to experience wearing a diaper because they know I wear them. 

The rest were guys who were willing to wear 'diapers for dough.' 

Yep.

If you're a church-going Christian who believes that paying someone to put on a Pamper is immoral, you're probably not on this blog. But if you got here somehow by mistake, click this link to navigate back to where you'll feel more comfortable: click here.

For the rest, allow me to explain.

I came up in upstate New York. We're not talking about skyscrapers and millions of people here. I'm talking smaller cities, lots of country, lakes, rivers... upstate New York. Sparsely populated, snowy, icy upstate New York.

When I started out trying to meet other diaper people, there were a lot less of us. 

Just locating people was a production. You went to DPF.com and did a search. You'd find someone in your area, check out their age/height/weight/description, and decide if you wanted to hit them up. If you messaged them, through email, you had about a 25% chance of them replying. Usually a few weeks or months later, when they toddled back to the site. 

In short, it sucked.

If you were lucky enough to find someone who responded, the story would almost always be the same. You'd have stumbled across someone who hated their Huggies habits. They would message you talking about wanting to meet up. Then, a few days later, they'd tell you that they were quitting diapers. Forever. A few weeks later, they'd be back.

I attempted to meet up with a number of abies in upstate New York, with disastrous results. 

I'll share some of those later.

To put it bluntly: at the time, meeting abies in upstate was nothing like the cakewalk it is today. It was difficult. And demoralizing. And depressing. It just damned sucked.

I'd like to say most of us eventually gave up, but I really didn't get to meet anyone else. 

One night I was chillin' in a pair of Attends - when they were still the best diaper out there, lol - and talking on the 'party line', this telephone chat line that was free in our city, and where all of the cool kids congregated at night. 

This was before MySpace. We'd talk on this party line, then get on AIM right quick if we wanted to talk online. Photosharing on AOL was pretty much the extent of the communication. No profile comments, photo comments, or bulletins. LOL.

So I'm on the phone in one room, and my friend is on the extension in the other room - home phones, yea - and we're just fucking with people.

And then I heard this message from someone: 

"Hey, guys... my car broke down, got towed, is in impound, and I gotta raise $100 to get it out tomorrow morning. I'll do just about anything."

My friend - well aware that I am into diapers, and who'd sampled one or two himself - left a reply message, before I could stop him:

"Twenty-five dollars to wear a diaper."

We laughed for five minutes, waiting for this dude's response. We both had our own ideas of what he'd say. "Fuck you, faggots!" was at the top of mine.

And then I heard "Sure, man. Pick me up?"

I'll tell the whole story later. And many others, too.

But before I do, I wanted to preface them with this thought:

If you were there in upstate New York during these times, and you hit me up and said "Hey! Let's lounge in Luvs!" and I ignored you or told you no, then please, by all means, let me know what you think about me dropping dough to diaper. For everyone else... I don't give a fuck. Truly.

More to come... thanks for listening. If you can bear it, hehe.

Introduction...

My name is Cwis. I'm an abysitter. This is my blog.

I've been an abysitter for a while now. When today's crop of li'l diaperboys were still in diapers, maybe. When I was young enough that the same old men who exclusively hit on under-18yo's were hitting on me. When Aby was still just a website with a lot of tight photos and Snuggies ads, and DPF was where you went to blindly meet other people in this fetish. 

If you're old enough, you remember being a 'toddler' before the internet hit. DPF was a magazine, and a mailing list. D stood for disposable. You didn't see a face; if you wanted them, you paid for diaper pictures. If you wanted to "talk" to someone you checked a box, and you might be lucky enough to get a letter from them. In the mail. 

I was still comin' up when all this was taking place.

I first found out about DPF when I was 16. My best friend Mark, who knew I wore diapers, found a copy of Penthouse with an article about DPF, and he gave it to me. It was all about the pedophile part of the fetish. It made people into diapers look like pervs. My first realization that I wasn't the only person in the world who still wore diapers, and it's with an article about some guy who's thing is taking little kids in the back of a van and molesting them. Nice. Thanks, Penthouse.

In college I found DPF the website. It seemed very different from the magazine article I'd read. It seemed... normal. I can't even begin to describe how excited I was to find out there were normal people who still wore diapers. I think I may have skipped a bunch of classes that day. I wasn't leaving that computer lab.

That's right, I said computer lab. My awakening was still in the days when not everyone had a computer of their own yet. I had one, but the internet at home, then, meant slow-ass AOL - not worth it, in my opinion. Instead I went to the computer lab and used their fast-ass internet connection. I'd find a computer with the screen facing a corner, sit down, and get my work done in between peeks at DPF, Aby.com, and other sites. 

Picture me - or yourself - looking at pictures of adult babies in a college computer lab. Ten years later everyone has their own laptop. I browse RUPadded from my iPhone, and exchange emails on my laptop, wirelessly, from anywhere. Back then, however, it was public, or nothing. The day I got RoadRunner was exciting for a few different reasons - including, for me, the ability to talk to people into diapers while I was wearing a diaper. (And, by that, I mean only a diaper). 

I spent my years at college trying to meet up with other people into the fetish. That's a different story - or, stories - for a different blog. Let's just say one thing was the same back then: abies are hesitant to meet, and have all kinds of issues. I'd nearly graduated before I finally found someone in my area. And he turned out to be flaky, a case of alternating diaper guilt and diaper lust. Not cool. 

So imagine my glee when one day I sat down at a computer I'd never been at before and began typing "a" in the address bar and - bam! - aby.com popped up.

I went to Google, or whatever search engine was the leader then, and typed in terms. "A" ... adult baby. "P" ... Pampers. The list went on and on.

There was someone else at my school like me!!

That was the moment I actually felt connected to someone else. A diaper connection. If you're into ABDL you know what I mean. 

I didn't even know the person. I had no idea who they were, what they looked like... I knew nothing. But there was someone else walking around campus like me. Maybe wearing a diaper. So, from that point on, every attractive frat boy I saw was a candidate. And I wasn't alone.

This blog is my chance to give a voice to a lot of abysitting experience: over 65 abies and counting. 

And it'll allow me to tell you about being a toddler. 

I'll tell stories about when I was a little kid, and talk about what happened to me this week.

It will be non-fiction. Biographical. Real shit. I could write good diaper stories if I put my mind to it - and one day I might. But, for now, this blog is straight up. 

Hope you enjoy it...

Cwis, aka Abysitter

Oh, and for all the haters: http://help.blogger.com/bin/answer.py?hl=en&answer=76314. Put that in your diaper and tape it shut.