Baby New Year!

It's meant to be symbolic.

Out with the old! In with the new!

And along comes Baby New Year, in his diaper - followed by that monument to geriatrica, Father Time, in his funeral attire. 

Bye bye Father Time; hewwo's, Baby New Year!

Goodbye, 2008. Welcome to... 2009!

It's ironic that so many holidays give us an opportunity to incorporate diapers into the mix. 

Baby New Year wears nothing but a diaper.

Cupid? He wears a diaper, too.

And anyone can wear a diaper on Halloween. Ah, glorious costumes!

Am I leaving out any?

I don't think so.

But New Year's Eve is my favorite. It almost symbolizes age regression. 

Get rid of the old guy. Bring in the baby!

It's what I try to do every time I put on a diaper.

Bring on New Year's!!!

Every year since I was a junior in high school I've been diapered for New Year's Eve. 

It's my own personal tradition, and I know that there's a chance that, one year, it could come to an end... diaper shortage... freak Florida snowstorm... or some other impossibility, maybe? 

Until then, I do what I have to, year after year, to make sure that it doesn't, and so far my streak continues. And so far, it has.

Start the next year in anything but a diaper? I don't think so. It's the start of the next year, symbolic of the entire year ahead! Starting it in diapers just seems... fitting. 

I know I'm not the only ABDL who feels that way. Nor am I the only ABDL with a diaper-on-New-Year's ritual.

I've talked to many more.

Many years I spend New Year's Eve at home, with friends. I prefer not to drive; there are five times the number of drunks on the road this one night as any other night of the year, and many of them are drunks who only drink one night of the year. I had a close call in upstate New York one year and realized how dangerous the roads really are.

So I host my own fun, some years; a little bubbly and some snackage, the ball on the TV, and I'm good to go.

And, of course, me in diapers.

I've spent a lot of New Year's Eve celebrations at home. But I've also spent them in other ways. As a senior in high school, and my first few years of college, I spent them on an upstate New York lake, on an overcrowded party boat, out in the middle of the water, freezing with friends. 

In diapers.

A few years later I spent one New Year's Eve flying with a few friends in a Learjet, cross country, with a midnight toast over one state in the mountain time zone and another midnight toast an hour later. Sweetness! I almost left the diapers at home for this one, but at the last minute decided to do it...

In diapers.

The year before I moved to Florida friends with a huge luxury RV threw a party at a snowed-in state park a few miles from my home. I'd planned to stay home, explaining that I didn't want to drive, but they brought the RV by my house and I couldn't say no. Watching the ball drop in a big-ass bus on the plasma, with every kind of liquor you can imagine, was surreal. And of course, I did in...

In diapers.

Over the years I've done the clubs, the bars, and even church. I worked one year. Maybe two? But, no matter what I was doing when the clock struck midnight and it became, well, whatever year was next, I've done it all in diapers. 

After all of that, my favorite New Year's Eve memories are of the years in between, when I avoided the crowds, stayed home, and was free to be Baby New Year. 

Being able to relax at home, wearing nothing but a diaper, beginning the next year sucking on a bottle and taking on the Pampers persona - great way to ring in the New Year. 

I'd give up clubs, bars, RVs, even the jet to be able to stay home, by myself or with friends, and just be myself. 

Cwis.

Tonight I'm going to a party at the Vue, a downtown condo here in Orlando. 

I tried to figure out a way out of it, but not going would mean an angry friend, a miffed business associate, and a good possibility of heartburn later. So I'm going.

I imagine it will be fun. I'll spend two hours standing around mingling - networking, really - and talking to a friend or two about how jealous I am that I don't live in this building. We'll step out onto the balcony and watch the fireworks, and toast at midnight. And then I'll battle the alcoholics and the boozen noobs, fighting for my place in the street all the way home. With any luck, I might even make it!

However it goes down, I will be diapered, without a doubt. 

But it won't be the same as what I'd hoped to do.

If I could do anything tonight, I'd stay home, watch Dick Clarke on television, and drink my champagne in a baby bottle. 

I'd suck my thumb, and as the ball drops, I'd soak my Pamper; fuck it, may as well start '09 damp, right?

I've been cajoled into going out, though, and so I shall. 

But it's not how I'd choose to greet 2009.

I guess it's just part of being... grr... a grownup.

On the other hand, the people at this get-together will have a real-life Baby New Year at their bash. They may not even realize it, save for an occasional waft of baby powder breezing in from the balcony, but Baby New Year will be there in full force, his disposable diaper puffing out from under his khakis.

So lucky them! Even if unlucky me.

In addition to Baby New Year, parties, alcohol, and Dick Clarke, New Year's Eve is also the time for... resolutions.

Resolutions are changes we resolve to make during the next year. We start off strong and, usually, forget all about them a week into the year. 

Most of us wind up at the gym. Some of us vow not to drink ever again. And a number of other resolutions are resolved, some kept, some broken.

It's a tradition.

I'd like to suggest some resolutions for the ABDL community:

• Resolve not to look down on other factions of the fetish. Abyfurs don't look down on non-furs, and vice versa. DLs don't look down on ABs, and ABs don't look down on DLs. We're all players in a crazy little fetish world that outsiders don't understand; let's resolve to, at the very least, be civil to each other.

• Resolve not to judge a book by its cover - or an adult baby by his diaper cover. Let's let things like age, attractiveness, immaturity, and other features be less important than what's inside someone. Let's resolve to give some credence to personality, and get to know people before we discount them as people we don't want to know.

• Resolve not to whine and cry when people don't like us. Save the whining and crying for real babies! With all of these different factions, and people who will place emphasis on what's sexually attractive to them, it stands to reason that there will be people who, to be blunt, won't want to get to know you. Move on. Resolve not to let it bring you down - or the community down with your crying rants on various ABDL bulletin boards.

• Resolve to exclude those who don't understand the difference between adult babies and actual babies. Teen babies have their place in the ABDL community, but it's our responsibility to keep them safe. We need to take it seriously. People under 18 are generally not allowed on most ABDL websites, with the exception of some TB sites, but they nevertheless find their way. Unfortunately, they sometimes find their way to people who would victimize them; resolve to remember that, as hungry as someone may be for that daddy-son experience, if they are underage, it's not a possibility. And resolve to exclude the adults who don't know this - or who don't care - from our community.  

If you have others, I'd be interested to hear them... feel free to drop a comment below. 

Or just make your own.

And resolve to keep them.

It's New Year's Eve, and around the world people are putting on their diapers to play Baby New Year at New Year Eve parties. 

And I'm putting on mine to be Baby New Year - in secret.

I hope that, in some way, you've managed to incorporate a diaper into your New Year's Eve ritual, too.

But whether you begin 2009 in diapers, or out of them, I hope you have many opportunities to wear throughout the year, and that it's a good year for you ABDL-wise and in every other way.

Happy New Year.

Cwis

Abysitting Part I: The Big Boy Box

Interested in what being abysat is all about? I'm a specialist in toddlerization. (Yes, I made that word up hehe.) I've diapered more than seventy people, and done at least a dozen abysitting (or pup sitting) sessions. 

The number of people who ask me to describe what I'd do during a session is staggering; what used to be fun to banter about has become little more than tedious typing, in most cases, the result of too many people who'd squirt and Merc - my little term for ejaculating and jettin', hah. (I go through the trouble to give someone a description of a session so he can j/o and be out? Wow). 

So I'm cheating. From now on I'll be able to link to this blog. This, my little diaper friends, is what abysitting is all about...

"The Big Boy Bucket"

It takes all kinds to make up a community. And the ABDL community is no different. You'll find adult babies and diaper lovers. Daddies, mommies, big brothers, big sisters. People who prefer disposables, vs. people who'd kick it old school in cloth. Those who are into wet, and those who are into the other. Ageplay roleplay participants, and those who don't want to regress at all, but would prefer just to wear diapers and enjoy watching others wear them. 

And I haven't even begun to get into anything with fur, yet.

To further complicate things, many of us go from one to the other to the next. We're abies sometimes, but other times we just like to wear. Or maybe we don't even know what we want; we just know we like diapers. 

And all of the above can make abysitting difficult. 

In the past, when I've diapered straight dudes for dough, I've found it easy to designate a target age. If I want a toddler, I can throw down a coloring book, pop open the playpen, and voila! I have a toddler. Infant? Lots of bottle feeding and tummy rubs. Whoever I've diapering is making bank, so their baby side comes out. 

When I've abysat people from the ABDL community, on the other hand, it's never as easy.

I've diapered about a dozen ABDL people. And, while most sessions went smoothly, there were those with challenges. 

I usually try to get a handle on someone's fantasy age/phase/stage well beforehand. You may be into spankings and strictness; I can do that. You may want to be cuddled and loved; I can do that, too. But you need to know which you want!

I've abysat people who had no idea. They wanted strictness - but not too strict. They wanted spankings - but nothing that hurts, thanks. They wanted to be a toddler; no, wait, they just wanted to wear a diaper with no ageplay... no, wait again, a little toddler time can't hurt, right?

There's nothing worse than babysitting someone who doesn't want to be a baby. You get all the stuffed animals and toys out, and then they announce - contrary to everything they've said before - that 'little kid stuff' makes them uncomfortable. So you're left with a lot of unwanted toys (sniffle) and some time to do... what?

On the other hand, if someone knows up front that they're not too sure about the ageplay or regression, it's easy to get into it slowly. I have a few different techniques I use; you'll have to wait for another blog entry for most of them, or come see me. But someone who wants to go from adult to teen to toddler in 'aby steps'... something I can certainly accomodate.

I'm also down for diaper dining. Movies in diapers. Sailing in diapers. Swimming in diapers. Pretty much anything in diapers. (And, some stuff not in diapers, too). So it's not like you're required to drop your age to zero to have some Cwis Time. 

For everyone who knows that they're ready for 'toddlerization', however, I'm ready to roll. And we start with... the "Big Boy Bucket."

You walk in. It's clear to me, right from the beginning, that you need to say goodbye to your grownup status. And it's up to me to make that happen.

I introduce myself, and ask me to tell you something about yourself. You start to talk, and I wave my hand to stop you. "I've heard enough," I say. "None of that'll matter in a few minutes, anyway."

My job is to send you from twenty to two in six seconds. It's not easy to get into the mindset of a toddler; it's even more difficult to give up control to someone you've just met. But you've asked for this, and I'm determined to let you have it. Your time as an adult is temporarily suspended. Introducing... Baby You!

"Corner," I say, pointing. You're surprised, at first, but then turn around with an embarassed look on your face and slowly walk into the corner. You stand in it, a foot or two away, and wait, and I tell you to get closer. You inch forward reluctantly, and I come over and gently ease you into your space.

I let you stand there and stew while I get things ready. I'm pulling out the diaper bag, and setting various brands of diapers on the table. I've got the baby powder out, the wipes, and I'm filling a bottle with warm milk for some microwave action. You don't know any of this; you're facing the corner, hearing a lot of rustling and some sort of pouring, but you're not allowed to check out what's going on. Truthfully, I'm giving you a period of time to back out. You, fortunately, don't know this either.

Once everything is set out I walk over to you and begin to explain "the rules." 

• Toddlers don't talk; you won't either. If you need something it's "wahhhhhh" and wait til I ask you what you need- and I'll have you practice once. 

• Toddlers don't walk. Don't even stand up, son; tummy crawling or hands and knees.

• Toddlers do as they're told. Those who don't - the 'naughty' ones - get a swat on the bum. Don't expect the fact that you've got a little padding in the form of Pampers to protect you; it'll sting. I may even give you a demo.

You're still standing there, clothed, nose to the walls. You're probably wondering what you've gotten yourself into. This is stricter than you'd imagined, you may be thinking.

"Time for the bucket."

After it's clear to me that the rules are clear to you, it's time to say bye bye to your adult status. 

I begin by reaching down and untucking your shirt; I pull it up, up, up over your head, telling you to hold your arms up until I have it off. Once it's off and you're shirtless, I tell you to take it. 

I tell you to lift your left foot. You do, and I take off your shoe, and then your sock. I reach up and put them near you and you dutifully take them under your arm. I tell you to put your foot down and repeat with the left; now you're holding your shirt, your socks, and your shoes. 

Time for a pocket check. You're not allowed to have any electronics. Your cell phone, PSP, and Ipod are getting turned off. Not to silent; not to airplane mode. OFF. I pull them out and do so, then drop the now-useless devices back into your pockets. I pull out your wallet and stand up, holding it in front of your face. "Mouth this." You're now holding your wallet, too. And we're not done yet.

I take off your belt and drape it over your shoulders. Your pants come down, and you're repeating the one-foot-two-foot hop while they're removed. I put them over your head and your arms, already pretty much occupied, instinctively come up to hold these, too. Now I've got you in your underpants, and it's almost time.

"Drop your drawers," I tell you. It's kind of a joke, but you're standing there with your hands full, up to your arms in big boy clothing, with a belt hanging around your neck, and you obediently begin to try to shake your underpants off. I tell you to stop, then come up behind you and pull them down in one fell swoop. No more dancing for you; I now just pick up your feet, one by one, and the drawers are history. You're now naked; if you've been good during this process I throw your underpants on top of your pants. If you weren't as compliant as you could have been they get draped over your cranium.

I walk over to the other side of the room and bring out the Bucket. It's a big, bright yellow pail. In it's former life it was a bucket used for something at a famous upstate hot dog stand; it then became Cwis's aquarium-filling bucket. On his Road Trip South it held two dozen little bottles of liquor. And then, when those ran out, just before it was put out to the dumpster, Cwis had an idea. And it became a symbol of your willingness to surrender your status and regress to infancy. 

I set it out on the floor. It has a sign on it, and I set it so that you can see the sign when I have you turn around.

"Kneel," I tell you, and you do so, quickly. "Turn around." You're swiveling, trying to hold everything without dropping it, and you're facing me, now, your face red and your junk swinging. "On your tummy."

You're laying in wait. What comes next? You can see the bucket; you've seen it in pictures, and here it is. What's that sign say?

"Come here." 

You think for a second. You have shoes and socks in your hands, you're cradling other clothes at your elbows, and a belt is about to fall off your neck. You want to ask "How?!" but you're chomping your billfold. So you begin to cross the room the only way you can figure out: toddler style. On your tummy, sort of inching forward. 

I wait, and when you're to the bucket I stand up and grab anything you haven't been able to hold onto. "Fanny on the floor," I tell you, and you scramble to sit up.

"If you continue, you're giving up any of the rights and privileges you came here with," I tell you. "Once your stuff goes into the bucket and the bucket goes away, you're left with what I give you. A diaper. Are you ready for that?"

You mumble a garbled yes, and nod you're head. If you're like most abies you've probably been waiting for this for a long time. You're excited, nervous, apprehensive - all at the same time. I reach down and scratch your skull for a second; trying to make you a little more comfortable. You look so adorable holding every ounce of your adulthood, so willing to say 'bye bye' to it all.

"Put your underpants in the bucket," I tell you. You either flop them in or - if you were naughty - shake your head vigorously until they fall off. "Good boy." Another little head pat, but then I explain how underpants are a symbol of adulthood. "You were pretty proud when you finally got to wear them, huh?" I ask, and you remember. "Well, those days are gone."

"You probably have money, credit cards, debit cards, an auto club card. Say goodbye to all of it," I tell you. "You don't need it. Not for a while, anyway. Put it in the bucket." You open your mouth and your wallet falls out. If you've asked for strictness and diaper discipline I may come over and pull the bills out one by one, crumpling them and dropping them into the bucket. (If you're like most abies, you won't have any bills, anyway lol). 

"What did you bring shoes and socks for?" I ask you, and you're at a loss. The answer is obvious, but you don't want to say it. "Shoes and socks are for people who walk," I tell you. "Not for babies. Bye bye shoes and socks!" You drop them in, too, as I take your belt, roll it up, and send it in as well.

I take your pants from you, and root through the pockets. Out comes your iPhone. I look at it, look at you, shake my head, and drop it in the bucket. You brought your passport? You don't need one for where you're going! It goes in, too. Car keys? "Going somewhere? I don't think so. Put them in." 

I'm holding your jeans, and you're left with nothing but nakedness. I hand them to you. "Drop 'em in," I say, and you do. I lift the handle and push the bucket towards you. "Take it and follow me."

You crawl, trying to move this huge bucket now filled with all your possessions. I turn and wait by the kitchen sink. It's the only cabinet with a lock, and I need you to know that there's no turning back. You are now a toddler.

You push the bucket into it's place and watch me lock the cabinet. You've been left with nothing. You're sitting on the floor, bare-bottom, and everything you came with is separated from you by a wooden door. 

It's a symbolic surrender of your adulthood. For many, it may be too much to bear; you've already decided it's not something you could handle or, if you do decide to try it, you'll get to Step 3/12 and cry like a baby. "Stop! I wanna be a Big Kid!" 

But if you've gotten this far, you're halfway to infancy. 

"I'm proud of you!"

Next up... saying 'bye bye' to the potty... and it's diaper time!

CHECK OUT THE 'BIG BOY BUCKET' BLOG UPDATE!

MARCH 2016 - FROM CAPCON!

Experiences: From DL to AB

If you know me, or reguarly read my blog entries, you know that I've diapered more than seventy people. 

You also know that about a dozen were ABDL people, and at least half a dozen were friends who wanted to try it out. The rest - about fifty people - were straight dudes looking to wear a diaper for dough.

When this first began I was finding ABDL people hard to find, let alone meet. My first meeting didn't go well; the person got scared and bitched out at the last possible minute, literally. My second was with this crazy (yet extremely hot) soldier boy, and it didn't go as planned. Before, during, and after these two were a lot of abies who used my conversation as masturbation material, or who outgrew (and then returned to) diapers before we'd get the chance to meet.

The first person who wore diapers for dough earned $25 or $30. I can't even imagine getting a few hours in a diaper for that today; it went up from there, and soon I was averaging $40 a pop. Still, for two hours or more in Pampers, dropping a few hours pay was well worth it. I was diapering some of my area's hottest guys, thugs who ordinarily might have punched a faggot in the face, not dropped their drawers for him; I was willing to throw down a twenty or two for the privilege.

The best part? No diaper drama.

If you know abies, you know about diaper drama. For every dope-ass diaper dude you meet on our various "community" websites there are probably three or four with more issues than National Geographic. Baggage upon baggage - did someone say luggage sale? ABDL is full of people with problems, and they often come out when you try to befriend them. 

With straight guys looking to earn a Benjy, whatever problems they have go away when they strip and shush.

The downside? They're not... abies.

When you diaper a thug, you're putting a gangsta in a disposable. He'll lay there silently, obedient to all of your commands. But there's no real interaction. You're chillin' with, rubbing on, and looking at hot diapered ass, abs, and everything else you get with that; there's no toddler time, or roleplay that some of us have grown to love. 

At least, there wasn't at the beginning. 

The first dozen diaperboys I "hired" were dope as fuck. All of them. But it was always awkward for me. Often they'd have no real idea what they would be doing; they'd heard "wear a diaper for dough" but, for some reason, it didn't completely register. I'd have them bare-assed, waiting for instructions, and I'd tell them to lay down on the bed; as they lay there, waiting, I'd open the diaper bag and slowly pull out wipes, powder, and... an adult diaper. The looks on their faces, usually, were priceless.

My fear was always that someone would see it, sit up, and say "Aww, hell naw!" 

I envisioned myself being pushed to my car by a naked hottie.

Of course, that never happened. The reaction was usually a mix of shock and awe. Laughter was what I heard most, along with questions like "Really?!" 

Nobody ever decided not to go through with it. And only one person didn't let me finish. 

(That story at a later time). 

But it was awkward, for the first dozen or so guys. I was afraid to pull out pacifiers. I was afraid to tell them to suck their thumbs. I didn't want to make it too juvenile; I was enjoying chillin' with hot guys in diapers, and I didn't want them to confuse our fetish with an actual love for real toddlers. So I mainly kept it DL.

That ended the day this wigger, Anthony, asked if there was any way he could make a little extra.

I'd met Anthony off the party line. I met pretty much everyone off the party line then, actually. We'd met at a local Burger King - he later admitted he worked there - and had driven around for twenty minutes while he acted tough before he finally brought me to his house. 

If this dude thinks I won't be able to find it again because he took me down every fucking road in the neighborhood he's in for a surprise, I thought; I've diapered someone else on this same street!

Anthony was a mixture of Italian and African-American. Well, you couldn't see the African-American, but it was there every time he opened his mouth. Every other word was "word" or "dawg". He pointed out everyone we passed as we drove. "That's one of my dawgs," he'd say. I tried to act impressed.

We finally pulled into his driveway and he brought me inside. "If someone comes here you were here to look at a stereo, dawg," he warned me. "My girl's crazy, and she comes home for lunch sometimes." I voiced aloud my concern that I wouldn't be willing to pay for something that might be interrupted. He immediately told me not to worry. "Her lunch is only an hour, yo. And it takes fifteen minutes to walk here. And fifteen minutes to walk back. So she won't be here long." 

I pictured the awkwardness of pretending to look at a stereo for twenty minutes while someone's girlfriend sniffed the air and wondered why everything smelled like baby powder. Then I looked at Anthony again. Might be worth it...

We walked to his bedroom, and I saw that the house they lived in didn't have much in it. The stereo, and a futon with a too-small mattress, were the only pieces of furniture in the living room. The kitchen had a table with two chairs. I wondered if he even lived here, if anyone actually lived here. Were they selling the furniture piece-by-piece for crack cocaine or something?

"Pretty sparse," I told him. Anthony looked at me quizzically, and I explained: "Not a lot of furniture," wondering if that was rude, maybe. He laughed. "We're not here forever, bro. My girl is going to be a model. We're moving down south when we can afford it." He then offered to sell me anything else I saw in the house for the right price. I looked around as we went up the stairs. I wouldn't take anything this kid had for free...

Anthony was in line for $40 - pretty much my going rate by that time. He was laying, in a diaper, and had been very obedient from the beginning. He kept explaining that he wanted me to "get what you pay for" and "have fun." We'd agreed on $40, and he'd been hangin' in Huggies for about an hour when he dropped the hint: he wanted to go a little further than forty.

I asked him what he had in mind. I truly had no idea; I considered doubling the time for an extra $20, but I was on a time limit. We could set something up for later, I told him; he was hoping to earn more today. 

He explained about some rap concert during the weekend, and the fun he could have with $40 as opposed to the fun he could have with $60. I considered just upping the tab - he was hot as fuckkk and I wanted to make sure he'd be a regular - but I didn't want to get in the habit of paying $60 a pop. So I asked, and waited.

He pointed to his diaper, which was tight in the front, the result of him being rock hard. "What do you think we could try?" he asked. I considered the idea... this straight boy wanted to have sex. A dream come true for someone who's not straight, right? I politely declined, knowing I might regret it later. "Too tired for that," I said. 

The disappointment registered on his face right away, and he began offering alternatives. "I could suck you off," he offered. WTF? What happened to this dude being straight?? "Or jack you. Whatever you want, yo. I need the money for the trip."

I didn't want anything like that. I wanted Anthony to be quiet, just look cute in his diaper, and let me whack it and leave. I declined, again, and again offered some alternatives. "Maybe we can squeeze something in before the weekend. You can have $80 by then, if you do this twice."

Then he came out with it. "Bro, I'll do anything you want. I'll pee in this fucking thing like a little baby!"

Instantly I knew he'd be making $60 that day. And he knew it too.

"I have to piss anyway, I've had to since you picked me up," he told me. "We drink free soda all day long at work, even when we're not on the clock, and I must've had three while I waited for you to come. Let me just do it, wet this thing, that'll be worth twenty, right?"

Hell yea.

I chilled. And waited. I'd always wanted to change a wet diaper and, believe it or not, had only changed my own up to this point. This could be... fun. I waited. After a few minutes Anthony started laughing.

"How do babies do this?" he said. "I can't piss."

Hmm... back to $40?

"I'm gonna do this, yo. Fuccccck!" I remember Anthony laying there, red-faced, concentrating. Every once in a while he'd grunt, like he was trying to force himself to wet, and then go back to concentrating.

"Not everyone can do it, bro" I offered. "It's okay if you can't."

"Nahhhhh!" he said, sort of angrily. "I'm gonna do this, dude. I gotta piss anyway, what the fuck. Why is this so hard?!"

I laughed, mostly to myself. 

"Try to relax. Close your eyes, and it'll come," I told him. 

Then we waited. I laid back, and we chilled. We talked about other stuff. Eminem's new book, which had recently come out. Anthony's plans; he wanted to be a rapper or a music industry rep, but had dropped out of high school and had spent a few years working at fast food jobs. 

About the time he got into his plans for a GED he made the announcement.

"Son... my diaper is wettttt."

Laying next to a diapered thug as he lays in a soaking wet diaper - for the first time since he was actually in diapers - is hot. If you've never tried it, I highly recommend it. I've done it many times since then, but the first time was my favorite, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

"Son, this is... squishy. Whoa, this is weird." Anthony began offering commentary. "Bro, how's my ass wet now, too? Are these diapers cheap or something?" I'd just been laying there enjoying listening, but I reached over and felt Anthony's bum; sure enough, it was soaked. I put my fingers in the leg gatherings and felt wetness nearly dripping onto me. Dude was right... he really had to go.

"Am I going to get diaper rash?" he wanted to know.

We chilled for another hour or so, and as we did Anthony started to get into being the Wet Diaper Kid. Without prompting he began sucking his thumb. "I wanna be changed!" he baby-talked, half jokingly. "My bum bum's wet!!!"

He'd earned his extra $20. And then some. But he wasn't done yet. Not even close.

As we chilled he began even more baby talk - it was so cute!

"I hafta go potty!"

I laughed. "Again?"

Nah, he told me. "Not really. I'm just trying to talk like a baby would. I want you to feel like you're getting your money's worth!"

It did. Keep going, I told him. And he did. I'd never hung out with another ABDL at this point, and this was the first time someone had 'role-played' with me. And it was dope as fuck.

Finally, when we had about thirty minutes to go before I had to leave for work, I announced that I needed to change him into a dry diaper. I wanted to spend my last thirty minutes with him cute, and in comfort, again.

"Yays!" he said, and took his thumb out of his mouth to lay down.

"Bring me the powder and wipes," I told him. He looked around, saw where I'd put them on the shelf by his door, and sprang into action. I watched him flop onto the floor and combat crawl to them. 

"Am I allowed to stand up?" 

I had to laugh. "I think you'll have to."

He jumped up, grabbed both, and got down onto his tummy for the crawl back. As he crawled he sang out "Gonna wipe my assss, no more diaper rasssssh!" and repeated it a few times, sort of rapping it. He crawled up onto the bed, lay on his back, and set the wipes and powder on his tummy. It was adorable, and I was glad that Anthony had suggested the whole wetting thing. I probably owed him more than $60.

I peeled his wet diaper off carefully; it was so wet it was dripping on the bed a little. I wadded it up and found it difficult to get the tapes to stick to it. I tossed it in a garbage can, and it nearly flipped the can over. Anthony shook his head.

"Sorry, dude, if you leave it here my girl will find it. Can you take it?"

LOL. Uh, ok.

"She's a crazy bitch, yo. You got no idea."

I wiped Anthony dry, slid a diaper under his rear, doused him with powder, and taped him up. He was all comfy and dry again, and I realized that, as awesome as having someone wet themselves for your benefit is, it was his toddler ways that I'd enjoyed most; I enjoyed seeing him in a nice dry diaper as much as the sopping wet one.

I spent the final thirty minutes doing my thing, and he continued to suck on his thumb - rather loudly - and speak toddlerspeak and gibberish.

At the end, when I'd finished, I retrieved the wet diaper, and the newly-removed dry one. Anthony dutifully brought me a plastic grocery bag and, without being asked, picked up his diapers and placed them into the bag. He tied it up tightly, and I reached out to take the bag; instead he tossed it into the garbage can. 

"You're doing me a favor," he said. "I guess I can keep it. It's in a bag."

I pulled out my wallet and hooked him up. I saw how excited he looked, and sort of felt bad. 

"That's like a full day's pay and a half, dawg," he told me. "After taxes I take home $40 a day." He immediately asked if I was interested in diapering him again. "I'll be back from the concert Monday or Tuesday," he said. "I'm free any morning next week."

I gave him a brief explanation of how my budget wasn't unlimited, and I'd be calling based on having extra dough. He offered to drop the price - and even offered to throw in the wetting for free next time.

"I'll call you Tuesday," I told him. 

Anthony and I chilled a few more times. And it seemed like he got cuter and cuter every time; his baby talk skills improved to the point I wondered if he was studying somehow. He'd crawl around in his diaper - dry, usually - and bat a beachball, play with an Eminem action figure, and fetch things for me without being asked. It was adorable. On the third or fourth visit he pulled out a big stuffed bear, and I realized that this little hard-ass had a soft side he'd probably wanted to reveal right from the beginning of me diapering him. I introduced pacifiers and a baby bottle, and he seemed to enjoy them.

"You know you're getting your money's worth, dawg," he'd say every time.

The last time we chilled, Anthony admitted that he'd actually started to enjoy spending time in diapers.

"It's therapeutic, bro," he confessed. "My Moms took me to mad doctors while I was growing up, and they all recommended anger management, and counseling, and - you name it, they said it. None of it worked! Someone should've just prescribed some time in diapers!"

I laughed, and told him about my desire to go someplace - a resort, a hospital, anywhere really - and be able to spend days, weeks even, as an infant.

"I feel you, dawg."

Our last time went on for four or five hours, at least two hours longer than usual. I kept asking Anthony if he had to go back to whatever he was doing before I got there, and he kept telling me to "chill on that shit, I'm good." After we'd de-diapered and I'd pulled out my wallet I found out why he was throwing extra time for free: he was moving. Down south. They were leaving the next day. As he told me I looked around; I'd missed the fact that their few possessions were boxed by the door when I walked in.

"I've had a lot of fun, yo," he told me. "When I first heard you on the party line I was like 'Hell, nah... this guy is fucking crazy!' but I needed the money and I took a chance. And it worked out. You're a dope-ass dude. Hope you got your money's worth."

I couldn't even put my thoughts into words. Best damn twenty I'd ever spent...

The last time we chilled was a freebie. I didn't know it until the very end, but I pulled out a fifty - more than I owed, but a little bit extra for moving, I figured - and gave it to him. He thanked me and walked me to the door, and as I turned to him he asked for a hug. 

This tough little thug, and he wanted a hug.

I hugged him, and thanked him for everything. 

"I should be thanking you, Chris." I thanked him again, and felt guilty; I wanted to explain how there were abies all over the U.S. who wouldn't have half the fun he'd had. I owed him. 

"I'm definitely gonna miss you," I told him. "Gotta find someone new now..." 

"Be careful, yo." 

After what must have been a minute he relaxed and stopped hugging me. I walked to the car, got in, and drove home. 

I was tired - a long afternoon-turned-to-evening of diapering, much longer than I was used to, and I was in the mood for some sleep. 

I took my jacket off, threw it on my desk, and got undressed. No diaper tonight; I was content to sleep naked. Less than five minutes after my head hit the pillow and I was out. 

When I awoke at about 5 a.m. I had a few voicemails. Beep, beep. I pressed "one" and listened.

My mother... where do you want to meet for dinner on Tuesday? 

My friend Mark... still want to go out for coffee this weekend?

And Anthony... we're leaving early in the morning... glad to have met you... always gonna consider you a friend... check your hood.

I was still listening to my voicemails as I turned on the light and walked over to my jacket. I picked it up and looked at it. The hood was zipped up; I didn't wear it as a hoodie, you couldn't even see it. What was this kid talking about?

I slowly unzipped it, and as I did I saw what he was trying to say. A fifty started to protrude, and then fell out. He'd returned it to me, probably during our hug. 

In the forty or so non-ABDL people I've diapered since Anthony I've come to some conclusions. Believe it or not, straight thugs tend to become more comfortable if you tell them to act like they're two. Wearing a diaper is weird; being given a chance to act out a role is challenging, and fun, and different. 

If Anthony hadn't suggested wetting his diaper for an extra $20 I may have continued to drop dough to watch people lay rigid in their Pampers. After a few visits with "my dawg" I was done with straight diapering; it was time to toddlerize.

And I've done a lot of toddlerizing since.

I'll tell a lot more stories about diapering, and toddlerizing, in future blog entries.

The latter all started with Anthony. 

Still miss him. 

Ghosts of Christmas Diapers Past

The earth has grown old with its burden of care,

but at Christmas it always is young.

                                                              ~Phillips Brooks

Ever since I can remember, Christmas has been my favorite time of year. 

I think a lot of us in the ABDL community probably feel the same way.

Some of us might even wonder why. 

When I was little I remember getting all excited in the weeks leading up to the holidays. Friends would say things like "what's the big deal?" and "It's just Christmas, bro."

For me, though, it was special.

It's possible that my friends had less privileged lives than mine. Maybe Santa was better to me than he was to other people. Or maybe it was my family; my parents both made a point to take the day off, while some of my friends' parents were working shifts at jobs that didn't close for the holidays. Maybe it's just easier to get excited when the whole family's home? 

I made those excuses for my friends for a few years, anyway. 

And, eventually, I just stopped caring about the nay-sayers at all. Santa is real, motherfuckers. I heard the damn hoofbeats on the roof myself! I don't care if your fucking doublewide has a chimney or not, leave the damn door unlocked...

Stop trying to spoil my Christmas!

I was probably ten or eleven when I started to 'age out' of Christmas. 

It was right around that same time that I started to realize why this one holiday is so important to me...

There's nothing sadder in this world

than to awake Christmas morning

and not be a child.

                                         ~Erma Bombeck

Am I the only one who's seen that big package under the tree and secretly hoped there was a big box of Pampers under that wrapping paper?

I bet I'm not.

If you're laughing at me, stop reading. The rest of this entry isn't for you.

For everyone else, tell me you haven't gotten to your last present and been disappointed that none of your gifts had anything to do with this fetish? 

No diapers. No footed sleepers. No jammies, plastic pants, bottles, pacifiers. Not even a rattle or a toy, wtf!

I've felt that way.

The gift in question turned out to be a stereo one year. Another year it was a big puffy Nautica jacket in a big-ass box. Each year, in fact, the phantom gift was something really good. But it wasn't diapers, and as foolish as I should have felt for thinking that it might be, I always had hope.

I had hopes, and, in fact, I had dreams. Diaper dreams.

Many years my dream was the one where my gift is too big to fit under the tree, so the whole family takes me upstairs to the guest room - and there it is: my new nursery! With a crib wrapped in a big red bow!

I am not making this up. 

And some of you probably know what I'm talking about.

As humiliated as we would have been by our parents pulling out our diapers on any of the other 364 days of the year, that one day we would've accepted it. The gift of acceptance was what many of us secretly longed for, and this was the one day miracles are known to happen, right? 

So there were Christmas holidays I actually envisioned the whole nursery being set up by Christmas morning. And as great as Christmas would turn out to be - and I always seemed to get gifts that I knew I'd really like - in my little diaper-delusional mind, there was always a sense of disappointment that I hadn't gotten what I really was hoping for. 

Happy, happy Christmas,

that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days;

that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth;

that can transport the sailor and the traveller, 

thousands of miles away,

back to his own fire-side and his quiet home!

                                        ~Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers, 1836

Starting about the time I was in seventh grade I had a Christmas time ritual. 

Around 5 p.m., as darkness fell, I'd go to my room, where I'd wrap the presents I'd purchased earlier in the day. I'd finish up the wrapping, dim the lights, and wait for the neighbor to turn on their Christmas lights. (I'm not sure why, but that was an integral part; if the lights went on before I was at the window it was a disappointing start to Christmas).

After the lights went on I'd put on a carefully-constructed diaper - always cloth, so as to avoid being caught - and, after a bit of powder sprinkled down the front and down the back, I'd get dressed. And we'd all go to church.

The Christmas Eve service started at 7. They also had one at 11, and my family discussed altering our schedule and going to the later one a few times, to give us extra shopping time. I was always a strong proponent for the early service, not only because it was when the service was geared towards me and all of the other people in diapers (hehe!), but because the next part of my plan was to be in bed early. That was important, too.

We'd sit through the service, then drive through one of the nicely-decorated neighborhoods we didn't live in, and then return home. It would be about 9 p.m., maybe a little later, and someone would always throw out the "let's watch a Christmas movie!" idea. A few years I obliged, changing into my littlest little-kid jammies (and keeping that fake cloth diaper on, thanks!) for the Peanuts special or whatever we had on tape. Most years, though, I'd beg off.

"I'm pretty tired," I'd yawn.

Truthfully this was the one night of the year I wanted an early bedtime. I'd fix up some hot cocoa and pour it into a baby bottle, and then I'd go into my room, shut the door, change into a pre-made disposable diaper - I usually made one during wrapping time, when the crinkling of diaper materials and the crinkling of wrapping paper would be indistinguishable - and become a little boy.

Little Cwis... waiting for Santa!

[SPOILER ALERT! DO NOT READ FURTHER IF YOU BELIEVE SANTA IS REAL - SPOILER AHEAD!]

I remember getting excited about Santa even after I was old enough to know he isn't real. 

After being diapered, I'd lay down in my "crib" - my twin bed, actually, but it was always decked out in this special set of holiday Peanuts sheets I saved all year for this night; they'd go into the wash after the holidays, and then back into the linen closet, where I'd push them wayyyyyy to the back so there was no chance they'd accidentally get re-assigned to my brother, used for painting dropcloths, etc. 

So I'd lay atop my little kid sheets, peering out the window, watching the neighbor's huge pine tree all lit up for the holidays, and watching for signs of Santa's sleigh.

Most nights it was a snowy, wind-blown New York night, and I saw nothing - and got cold air and snow particles in my face for my troubles. Occasionally a jet or other aircraft would pass overhead, though, and it would all be worth it: a possible Santa Sighting! Yessss!!

As ridiculous as it sounds, it was remarkably easy to allow myself to be overtaken my the magic of Christmas. Picture little Chris, laying in a diaper, crinkling as he peers out the window looking for Kris Kringle.

I'd sip on my hot chocowate until it got lukewarm, and then cold. I'd fight the urge to fall asleep, but finally zonk out. And when I woke up in the morning, it was time to be a kid again!!

Am I the only one who's snuck into a diaper before the family meets under the tree?

In my family, everyone takes turns getting presents for each other. There's a lot of moving around, and crawling, lol. For a while I was afraid to open presents in Pampers. So I'd do the fake cloth diaper, or nothing. Couldn't take the risk.

Eventually, I discovered adult diapers. Still crinkly, but less so - and when you're doing a lot of giftwrap crinkling, you can sorta hide it.

(I hope?! Hehe). 

So as a sophomore, junior, and senior in high school - and, yea, a few years in college - I was fully diapered all day long. And I always wondered if my family could tell. 

I mean, I went easy on the baby powder, and the diapers weren't that noticeable. And I'd long since developed my instinctive diaper outfitting - finding clothing that help camouflage disposable diapers and still make me look cool. (You know you know what I'm talking about here). 

But there was always that fear of someone turning to me and saying "You're wearing a diaper, Chris? Really?!"

"Get out!" Haha. Eek!

And you already know, of course, that this fear of getting caught - well, without the eviction, thanks - was half of the excitement of wearing them.

But the truth was, it was Christmas day. A day that brings out the little kid in all of us, if we do it right. And I'd be damned before I spent the day in a pair of boxer shorts.

So diapers every Christmas since I was 15 has been a tradition.

I was diapered when I went to bed.

I was diapered when Santa came, and still when Santa left.

I was diapered when it was time to open presents.

And I stayed diapered for the ride to the Grands, through dinner, and - well, you get the idea. 

The whole day, I was diapered.

If I could have brought a bottle and pacifier along with me, I would have. 

If someone had brought out the playpen at the Grands' and said "Cwis, you climb in too!" I would've been on that like a diaper.

It wasn't just that I was clad in a disposable for the day. I was, at every available opportunity, a toddler. The diapers were just the crowning touch.

My favorite part of my Christmas Day memories was the ride home. The sun would go down and it would be time to say our goodbye's. We'd load presents and leftovers into the car and make the hour-long trip together, driving down the Thruway first, and then along some country roads. 

I'd still be diapered; sometimes I'd even have changed into a fresh one before the trip. I'd be in a state of semi-consciousness most of the way, having gone through an exciting regimen of presents-opening and a big Turkey dinner... what little kid wouldn't be tired out by all of that?!? So there I'd be. Wedged in the backseat between boxes and bags, I'd listen to Christmas music and the hum of the tires, lean back, close my eyes, and dream.

In my dream, I was in a car seat. And as the rest of the family bantered, their words were lost on me; I was just a little nug, after all, I didn't understand all that grownup stuff. I was just excited about the day, excited about playing with my new toys - yea, at age 15, haha - and, usually, halfway into the trip, I had to go potty.

If Christmas went as planned, I wound up in a warm diaper about the time we hit our road. I usually helped unpack the car, said thanks-but-no-thanks to leftovers, and went straight to bed, hoping to make it before anyone else could tell Cwis was wet.

It was still Christmas, and I had a few more hours to be Little Cwis. When I woke up on December 26th I knew it would be back to business as usual, but I was determined to get every last mile out of my day to revisit my childhood.

Christmas nights were my favorite.

Christmas - that magic blanket

that wraps itself about us,

that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. 

It may weave a spell of nostalgia.

Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer,

but always it will be a day of remembrance -

a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved.

                                              ~Augusta E. Rundel

I'm older, now, and I've moved from New York to Florida. I live away from the family, and while I still try to reunite with them in New York, or whatever state we wind up doing Christmas in, it's not always possible. Some years I spend it with friends, or by myself.

The idea of not being with family during the holidays is one that almost anyone would be disheartened by. We, as abies, have it a little easier: we find it much easier to draw into our imaginations and revisit the years we were lucky enough to spend the holiday with our loved ones. For some of us, it's as easy as putting on a diaper and putting our imaginations to work.

Today I woke up in sunny Orlando, FL in a wet diaper, with half a once-warm bottle of milk at my side. I showered, tidied up, and re-diapered myself, and set out for a day of diaper fun. Thanks to a friend stuck in Chicago because of a snowstorm and another friend visiting Serbia for a week, it was just Cwis; my traditions all gone, but with one thing still left to cling to: my diapers!

I did some IHOP with a friend, then went to this lakefront park where I walked two miles - yep, padded - before grabbing a little lunch and heading to the movies. I'd thought of bringing in a baby bottle, like I usually do - smuggled in my shorts pockets with the candy, hehe - but WTF! it was crowded as hell. I never knew how many people do a movie on Christmas; I'd thought it would just be sad old me. 

So I went to the The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - the new Brad Pitt drama that's getting a lot of Oscar buzz. He goes from being elderly to a baby, and damn! if all of us couldn't get into that, right? (It's not as fun as it seems, haha). Anyway, I spent the movie in a diaper, and I briefly thought I was going to be throwing it down when this old guy asked if I'd mind moving to the front row so he and his wife could sit together and I told him "I'm good." (Sure, I got here twenty minutes early so you and your wife could come in a minute before the movie starts and sit in the good seats, absolutely!) Fighting in a diaper, especially in a big crowd of people, is never a good idea. 

I finished the movie, slipped out the back, and hopped in the car. I drove around for an hour, wet my diaper after a while, and then swung through McDonalds for a hot cup of coffee. Into the baby bottle it went, since I hadn't had the chance to use it at the theatre. Then I headed home, put on my jammies, and pulled out my laptop to write this blog.

I miss my neighbor's Christmas lights. I miss the family driving me over the river and through the woods in my disposable diaper in the back seat of their car. I miss a lot of those memories. But, without a doubt, I'd miss them a lot more if I didn't, at the very least, have my diapers and a baby bottle to take me back a bit.

Christmas, in its final essence,

is for grown people who have forgotten what children know.

Christmas is for whoever is old enough to have denied

the unquenchable spirit of man."
                                          ~ Margaret Cousins (1905- )

                                     senior editor Doubleday Publishing Company.

My favorite Christmas ever happened two years ago right here in Florida. 

It was the year that I got not one, but two, bags of diapers under the tree.

It was my first Christmas in Orlando. I'd gotten to know my friend Vuk - an ABDL himself - only a few months before; a second friend, who used to wear diapers for money, had moved to FL to live with me for a few months while he decided whether he wanted to make this his permanent home.

Before I left to fly out to the west coast for Christmas with the family, my friend/roommate, Len, told me to look under the tree. He was laying on the couch; it was about 5 a.m., and I was about to catch a ride to MCO, and had been trying to be as quiet as possible so he wouldn't wake up. I went to the front door and turned on the lights and looked under the tree; there, wrapped in one single sheet of wrapping paper, was a bag of Depends.

"I figured nobody'd ever given you diapers under the tree before," he said. "I figured it's probably the only thing I could afford to get you that you'd actually want." 

I wanted to hug him. His promise to wear some when I got back to Florida made the gift even sweeter.

When I came back a coworker picked me up at the airport, with Vuk in tow. We stopped at Steak & Shake, and Vuk was all excited. "I can't wait to give you your present, bro!" My friend remarked that he couldn't wait to see this present, and from the look on Vuk's face I knew right away it was something diaper related.

And it was. After my coworker had left Vuk darted into our diaper closet and came out with a big, wrapped box. 

"Open it!"

I did, and in the box were a whole bunch of Abena XPlus diapers - I'm not even sure where he got them, but I made him promise that he hadn't just stolen them from me earlier in the year, haha. I took out the diapers one by one and, at the bottom of the box, there was a plethora of baby supplies: a bottle, a pacifier, a rattle, even a little rubberized silverware set. 

I'd spent a long time hoping for diapers under the tree, and this year I'd gotten a whole toybox full of stuff.

In 2006 my Christmas night memories - yea, I fly on Christmas, lol - were a little bit better than years past. Instead of going to sleep in a wet diaper, I got to change them. Mine, and two others. 

I guess this year sucked, in comparison. But my goal, eventually, is to have a whole houseful of little abies opening presents on Christmas morning. I look forward to sitting back and watching little diapered nugs crawling around playing with wrapping paper and toys. And maybe even joining them.

As long as my Christmas holidays include Huggies, I'll be in the spirit. 

When we recall Christmas past,

we usually find that the simplest things -

not the great occasions -

give off the greatest glow of happiness."
                                                                       ~ Bob Hope

Sometimes those things, my little Christmas friends, are diapers.

Snuggies ads courtesy of Snuggies by VanGoo.

See the whole gallery at    http://www.aby.com/apm/display_gallery.php?galleryid=19.

New Year's Eve memories entry coming soon.