The Last Diaper

[CWIS'S NOTE] A word of warning: this blog entry is long as fuck. Don't be discouraged if you can't get through it all... shorter stories are coming, I promise. ALSO: This entry has a lot of excerpts from entries through the years, including some you've seen before. Enjoy... 

THE LAST DIAPER

One Last Night In The House I Grew Up In... 

I am one of the lucky ones - I was fortunate enough to grow up in the same house my entire childhood. From the time I was adopted at just under one year old - save a brief stay in a home close to the foster home I'd been placed in - all the way through high school, I had the same house, same bedroom, same everything. I've seen a lot since I left home, and I know that I was lucky to have the same parents from 1 - 18, let alone the same house. I don't take that for granted.

If you've read the blog for a while you know that I wasn't an easy kid to deal with, and I left home at 18 to go to college and never returned. I spent semesters at school, and summers at the cottage, and even stayed in an off-campus apartment that my parents helped pay for before I could afford my own. They were probably happy to help, since the alternative meant me returning to the old homestead, and it would be quite a few years into adulthood that our relationship would see serious improvement. 

But improve it did. With that came more visits home. Holidays, birthdays, and family dinners, even. 

Eventually I would relocate to Florida. My parents would retire and begin to travel. I'd return to New York in the summers, and sometimes my visits home would coincide with their travels. That meant that I'd have their house to myself. I think everyone probably knows what that means... 

"Parents gone, diapers on!"

It meant for at least a few days every summer I had the opportunity to become Little Cwis in the house that I grew up in. 

I think we all probably have more of a nostalgic side than most - it's part of what makes us yearn for a return to the toddler days if we're AB, and even if we're DL certain scents and textures take us back to the original diaper days. 

I'm a nostalgic type of individual anyway, and that is exponentially true where diapers and age-regression are concerned. I get into the "little" headspace just about anywhere, when I'm alone. I can crawl around the floor in my apartment and watch cartoons in the playpen all day long. I can go to the cottage and spend an entire weekend in nothing but a diaper, plushie in tow. I can rent a hotel room on the beach, hang in Huggies on the sand, and spend every night listening to the waves and feeling four. But could any place really take me back to the feeling I get when I become Little Cwis in the same space I was once originally little in? 

So each summer I'd try to spend at least a day or two at home. Unlike when I was 14, 15, 16, 17 and just counting down the days until I could grow the fuck up and get the fuck out, now I relished every hour I could feel little again... 

For at least a few days every July you'd find me laying on an old playmat in the playroom - since re-christened a storage room, really. You'd find me taking naps in my bed, or coloring on the floor next to it. And, at night, you'd find me laying outside on the lawn, in my diaper, with my baby bottle full of warm milk, watching the skies for shooting stars... 

My trips "home" became an important part of my summer vacations. 

The last summer I visited was the first summer that I shipped ahead extra diapers and supplies. 

My parents had been talking about selling the house. 

They wanted a smaller house, one that would allow them to work less and play more. They wanted a house that was out of the 'lake effect snow' bands - my mother was worried that my father would get hurt trying to shovel snow off of the roof. They wanted to be closer to the cottage. 

The house was an old farmhouse. It was built in the 1800s, and while thoroughly remodeled over the years, was still... old. It wasn't the kind of house selling quickly in the area. In any area, really. 

Still, just in case they got lucky, that July I brought more diapers than usual. I packed my favorite pacifiers and bottles, a footed sleeper, and some toys, and shipped them ahead to an area friend. I knew that there was a chance that my visit might be my last chance to regress as Little Cwis in my childhood home. Just in case, I would make the most of it. 

And make the most of it I did. I spent three days at that toddler level, and for a part of the three days I actually felt legit time traveler. I spent part of the time on my laptop doing work things, and part of the time going for a walk at a nature preserve nearby, and - well, let's just say enough adult stuff found its way in to make it a sort of hybrid weekend. But every second that I could sacrifice for the sake of age regression I did. When I finally put on my big kid clothes and packed my bags in the car I had a feeling of satisfaction, not of defeat. 

A few weeks later my parents called. 

They had some exciting news. 

Was I sitting down? 

In actuality, I was driving. But I already knew what the news was. 

The house had sold. 

A farmer in the area, who didn't care about things like half bathrooms and city water and cable TV and everything else the house lacked, he'd written a check for the asking price of the house. 

He wanted the land it was on. One of his daughters would live in the house with her husband and children. 

My parents hadn't had to do anything at all.

No remodels, no bathroom additions, no water hookups - nothing that their real estate agent had suggested. 

It had sold, and the only condition was that they had to be out in 30 days. 

My brother called me a few days later. 

Growing up we hadn't always gotten along, and that intensified after we both left for college.

For more than a year we actually stopped speaking to each other altogether. When he asked me to be the best man at his wedding my answer was a curt "okay," and I wasn't happy about being asked - I'd felt pressured into talking to him again.

We really only began to talk the weekend of his wedding, and that was more out of necessity than anything else. 

In the years since then we'd grown closer, working together on some projects and communicating a lot by email. Old grudges were forgotten. I'm not sure if I remember what I was angry about to begin with. 

When he called to ask if I'd heard about the house selling, we talked for a bit, and he got to the real point of his call: he wanted to know if I remembered family dinners growing up. 

When we were kids, we'd developed a family tradition: we'd take turns, about once a month, preparing a dinner for our family. We'd do the budget, shop for the groceries on a set amount of money, and prepare this meal, 100%.

Like everything else, it basically became a competition between the two of us. We'd battle to see who could come the closest to our budget without going over. We'd ask our parents for a review of the meal, basking in the compliments that almost always came, and looking at each other smugly as we listened. 

When my brother's steak dinner was too undercooked to eat he learned important lessons about cooking temperatures - and accepting criticism without crying.

When I dropped a whole plate of pasta, I learned an important lesson about not trying to serve food off the floor, lol.

We learned a lot during those dinners, but by the time we'd reached our teens the tradition had stopped - we were too busy with swim practice, music lessons, and other life bullshit, I guess. 

Still, lots of jokes were made over the years. A rare steak at a restaurant would lead to someone asking if my brother had snuck into the kitchen to help the chef. Anything found in food that didn't belong there lead to someone referencing my floor pasta. Years later I suck ass at cooking, but still sometimes miss the adventure that was our little family dinners. 

So when my brother called and suggested that we do one more, I was on immediately on board. 

He had one suggestion: don't tell Mom and Dad.

They wouldn't be expecting me, and had mentioned several times that they felt like I'd want to see the house one last time, and say goodbye. (They of course had no knowledge that I'd spent three days returned to infancy there just a month or so before, just in case it was my last time...)

I booked my ticket, and prepared to spend one final weekend at the old house. 

As I packed for my spontaneous trip to New York it hit me: this visit would really, truly be the last time I'd have the chance to pad up in my childhood home - ever. 

It was definite now. Once I left to return to Florida, I'd never again see the inside of the house again. 

Years of memories of my diapered persona development would end in a final meal, one last overnight, and a quick flight back out.

How could I make the most of it?

Ideas began to whoosh through my head. What diaper would I wear for my last diaper in this house? 

Should I go discrete, with an Attend? 

Should I go functional, with an Abena L4? 

Or should I go full-out 'little', and rock a Bambino or ABU? 

I wasn't sure, really. 

And, looking back, I gave it way more thought that it deserved. 

But it seemed important.

I'm a guy who is nostalgic as fuck. Hell, I've spent seven years plus blogging, telling diaper stories from memory. You know this would be important to me.

So I packed one of each.

Then, at the last minute, I realized that I had one Dry 24/7 left from my original stock.

Dry 24/7 had experienced a dry spell, so to speak, earlier that year, and I'd almost run out, saving one of the originals before switching over to alternatives that, for me, didn't quite match up. 

I took all of the other diapers out and put my last Dry 24/7 in my bag. 

That would be the one.

And the only one I would bring. 

It's funny how important one diaper can seem when you have plans for it. 

In my closet, it's one of hundreds. 

How many times have a gotten a case of Snuggies, only to put them onto the pile of other diapers - almost taking the size of my 'stash' for granted?

Later, when I put one on a little bwo or special friend, it transforms from inanimate object to... something way, way more. 

(A lot of you probably know what I'm talking about.)

Some diapers just get taped on, peed in, and tossed. Others rip before we can even apply the tapes, and go straight into the trash, never to be worn at all. But some - the lucky ones, haha - have a co-starring role in our photoshoots that will make the rounds on Tumblr for decades lol.

Or ingrained into our memories, having had roles in diaper meet-ups that we'll remember for years. 

I knew that this was going to be one of those diapers - the last diaper I'd ever wear at this house that had been so important to me - and while it almost certainly wouldn't be a part of any diaper selfies, it would be one I wouldn't forget.

Oddly, as I drove to the airport, I found myself with my hand in my backpack, resting on it. 

As I pushed my bag on the scanner at the airport I kept a wary eye on it - don't lose that bag! My iPhone, iPad, laptop, and credit cards were all in there - but what came to mind at that moment was the calamity that would be one last night spent at home without a diaper. 

When I opened my backpack on the plane to pull out the laptop I caught a glimpse of the diaper and wished I could sneak into the lavatory and tape it on.

When the airline lost my luggage, as I made arrangements to have it dropped off at the house, I congratulated myself on having had the foresight to bring my only diaper in my carry-on, and not my checked bag. I had questioned only bringing one - what if it ripped or leaked, I had wondered - but I knew that this was going to be the last time I'd wear at the house, and bringing only one gave the diaper more significance, I guess.

If you're not an ABDL and just stumbled on this blog, you're probably like... what the fuck.

And even some ABDLs won't understand.

But I know some of you do, because we've talked about it before or since.

This diaper represented something much more than a receptacle for pee...

...it represented me. 

My brother and his wife picked me up at the airport and brought me back to their house. 

Along the way my mother called him, and I got to hear her say, once more, how badly they felt that I couldn't be present for the last meal they'd planned. 

"He'll be there in spirit!" my brother told her, smiling at me. 

"It won't be the same," she replied. That made me feel good, that my hypothetical absence would have put a damper on the occasion. 

My brother got their schedule for the day as we determined what time to arrive. They'd be out for a few hours in the afternoon. That was when I'd sneak into the house, to surprise them when they returned. 

We arrived at the house the next afternoon and, after a quick call to the parents to confirm they'd be out for a while, everyone else left to go shopping for dinner. 

"I thought you might want some time to say goodbye to the house," my brother said.

He was right.

I'd said a tentative goodbye just a few months earlier, but it was real now - the house had sold, and this would truly be my last visit. 

I walked in and was immediately struck by how different things seemed. Movers had come and taken so many things to the new house. It seemed to be a shell of the place where I'd grown up - furniture gone, pictures off the walls - even some of the lighting was missing. 

My parents had insisted that the movers leave the dining room furniture and cookware - they'd load that into my father's pickup truck later, so it could be used for this final meal. The appliances were staying with the house, but short a fridge and stove and one cupboard with dishes, the kitchen was bare.

I knew that I had to take one last walk around the house before everyone returned.

If it was as empty as the dining room, I was sure I was about to be depressed.

Still, after so many years of memories here, I wanted to take advantage of this time.

I walked into the living room. It was completely empty. 

I sat down on the floor, lay back, looking up at the ceiling. 

So many days had been spent diapered in this room through the years... 

As a kid I rarely had the nerve to walk around downstairs in diapers - the thought of not noticing someone coming to the door was horrifying to me.

But the bay window allowed a view of the entire length of the driveway, and on those days I was wearing and heard someone pulling in, this was the room I would run through, frantically, trying to see who was about to discover my secret.

Once I got to high school age, I made an exception to my 'no diapers in front of the family' policy. One day a year I'd take a risk. If you know me you know I've long incorporated diapers into important occasions, including my birthday and most holidays. That all started with Christmas mornings back in high school...

I lay there, deep in thought about the many Christmases I'd spent right here, secretly rocking Pampers under my pajamas right on this floor. 

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

In my family, everyone took 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, and the crinkling kinda blended with the crinkling of wrapping paper, so Cwis got more daring. As a sophomore, junior, and senior in high school, and for a few years in college, I was fully diapered all day long on Christmas. 

I know that I'm not the only one who, however ridiculous I knew it was, hoped to find a bag of diapers under the tree, and was secretly sad when Santa didn't deliver and that last package - the one that looked like it could be a big bag of diapers - was something else. 

I had other memories from this room - memories that were probably equally important.

Family visits with relatives long-since-passed - important people in our lives seated on the furniture, and my brother and I on the floor, right where I was now.

Important conversations, like the time I tried to tell my father I was gay, and he assured me that I wasn't - that I couldn't be, or the time my parents told me that my grandmother had died. Family meetings and family fights, all happened in this room.

But, for me, this room represented a part of my diapered development, and when I lay back and let the memories flood in, diapered Christmas mornings were what came to mind. 

I slowly got up and left the living room, walking across the hall into the den.

This was where the television was, growing up, so this is where I spent most of my time during 'hooky days'.

Hooky days were what me and my junior high school friends called the days that we all faked sick and stayed home.

We chose them together, but we all lived too far from each other to ever see each other. Thinking back, we probably would have had more fun if we'd just gone to school and hung out. But we made 'hooky days' a monthly thing, and spent the better part of the day calling each other on the phone.

When I wasn't on the phone with my little delinquent friends, though, you know I was enjoying some much-needed baby time.

Often the process would begin in the morning. The minute my parents left for work and the bus rumbled off with my brother towards school, I'd climb out of bed, do a last-minute 'run through' of the house, checking every area for stragglers. I'd click the garage door opener for the left door and watch it slowly rise; Dad's gone! I'd lower it and then click the right door - Mom's gone too! I'd lock all of the doors, close a few curtains, and prepare myself for the 'little' mindstate. 

A bad day of being 'little' beats a good day of middle school anyday... 


I knew about Hefty garbage bags, paper towels, toilet paper, and duct tape. Add these four ingredients and a ton of baby powder and a diaper was born - and, with it, a whole new Chris. 

"Cwis." 

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 first 'stash', if you will... 

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. 

Yes... yes... FUCK YES! 

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 in stores today. 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. And, in the mirror, I had to admit - they looked HOT! 

So, as pathetic as it sounds, I was in diapers again. Tall Kitchen Trash Bag Diapers. 

I'd carefully place the Kleenex across the garbage bag, put the paper towels on top, and tape them, making sure to leave put more padding in the places that would need it. 

This would be my diaper for the day. A Confidry Dry 24/7 it was not... one wetting would be enough to cause some leaks, and I'd undoubtedly have to double back to make sure I cleaned up any signs of wetness before the parents got home. 

But I'd put it on me, tape it nice and snug with duct tape, and spend the rest of the day crawling around the house, taking a nap in my bed, or - for much of the day - parking my little diapered bum in front of the television, coloring and putting together puzzles while watching TV. 

By the end of the day, I'd have a mess to clean up. Sippy cups and baby bottles, toys all around me, stuffed animals, coloring books and crayons - the den was my 'playroom', and it became my 'little space'. 

It was heaven. 

In later years the television was moved to another room, and this became the guest room.

I'd always feel bad when guests would stay there - little could they know I'd leaked wetness in this room dozens of times.

Years later the guest room would serve as my bedroom when I would return for visits. My parents had taken to storing things in my bedroom, so the guest room it was for me. I'd open the windows, let a summer breeze come through, and nap and sleep here.

It would be the room that Mikey and I would sleep in when he came to visit.

Some of you have read the Me and Mikey story series. In the summer of 2011 my friend Mikey, a non-ABDL, had wanted to come spend a few weeks with me in New York. He was homeless, having just come off of a heroin addiction, and had nowhere to go. I'd been hesitant to let him come stay for a number of reasons, but when he'd offered to model some diapers - surprising me with the fact that he even knew about them - I quickly gave in.

During part of his visit we spent a day and night at this house.

We were rolling around my hometown and decided to spend the night at my parents' home. We'd have the house to ourselves, and I knew that we could wander around in Pampers, maybe even spend some time outside watching the stars. I was excited... I'd done this many times, from growing up to recent summer visits, but this would be the first time in a long time I'd had someone visit in Pampers.

I'd already told Mikey about my parents' love for natural foods, including soy milk. As we drove toward their house he reminded me that he was expecting to be fed a baby bottle - and only wanted vitamin D milk. 

"None of that soy shit," Mikey told me several times. 

As we arrived at the drug store and I pulled up and parked. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to him.

"Get a carton of milk and some baby powder," I instructed. 

"How are you gonna send the baby in to get his own baby powder?" Mikey asked, feigning annoyance. I laughed and told him I could send him in for diapers, too. "You think I'm afraid to walk in and buy adult diapers?" he asked me, shaking his head. "Bro, I'll walk in there, buy some diapers, and put one on in the middle of the store." He was serious. 

"My parents live in this town," I reminded him, laughing. 

With that he jumped out of the car and walked in, returning a few minutes later with the requested items. We drove to the house and unloaded the car. I set my suitcase with the diapers on the floor in the living room, and Mikey put the milk in the fridge. He walked into the guest room and flopped down onto the bed, pulling his pacifier out and putting it in his mouth. I heard him slurping on it as I unpacked diapers and baby wipes. I filled a baby bottle with milk, set it in the microwave, and walked down the hall. 

"I'm about to go ham on that bottle!" Mikey yelled out to me, laughing. "I'm hungwy!" 

"It's milk, Mikey," I told him. "I'm not sure if you're going to fill up with milk..."

"I want my milk!" Mikey cried out, mimicking a toddler's voice. It was adorable, and I couldn't wait to give him his bottle. I ordered him to put his feet up, and he did, kicking them together over and over. It was so cute... almost like this kid had practice playing the role. 

I pulled Mikey's feet up and put my hand on the waistband of his jeans, pulling them toward me. His boxers came with them, and soon he was naked from the waist down. I grabbed his hands, pulled him into a sitting position, and pulled his shirt off over his head, patting him on his head before allowing him to fall back onto the bed. The paci smacking continued, and I could tell from his eyes that he was smiling... it was adorable. 

Within minutes Mikey was diapered. He'd seen the Cushies, and wanted to try one - they were the most babyish diaper on the market at the time, and he'd mentioned wanting to try one several times. He was really getting into it, now, making vroom vroom! noises and mimicking an airplane flying - the diapers, as you know, have airplanes on them. 

"Come with me, Baby Mikey," I directed, snapping my fingers and pointing to the floor. Mikey crawled down and began crawling along behind me, but winced. 

"My foot still huwts," he complained, and I was reminded that he'd hurt it running in PA before he'd come. I felt bad, but I wasn't ready to let him get up and walk... he was so cute crawling along. I agreed to allow him to scoot along on his bum, and he did, smiling and sucking away. 

We wound up in the kitchen, Mikey still sliding on his bottom, and I pulled the bottle out of the fridge, heading for the microwave. Mikey's face lit up. 

"I'm sleepy, Cwis," he confided. "I bet after this bottle I might be out..."

I warmed up the bottle, and Mikey giggle when I pulled it out and tested the temperature on my wrist. We went into the living room - me walking, Mikey crawling - and I sat down on the couch. 

"Where should I sit?" he asked me. He'd kind of cosied up to me, kneeling as if expecting me to hold the bottle out. I told him to climb up and he started laughing, shaking his head. 

"Like a real baby... wow," he said. I could tell he was a little bit embarrassed, but he climbed up, obediently, and lay back, his head resting on my lap. I held the bottle out and, after a minute or so of both of us adjusting and trying to get comfortable on the couch, Mikey mouthed it and began sucking. 

There is nothing cuter than watching one of your best friends suck on a baby bottle full of warm milk for the first time. I've given bottles to a lot of very, very cute people, mostly ABDL, and I still wasn't prepared for how adorable the look on Mikey's face would be... he looked so happy, so comfortable, so at peace. He sucked and sucked, a satisfied smile on his face. I put my hand on his tummy and rubbed, causing him to giggle a little.

After a few minutes I pulled the bottle out of his mouth and set it on his stomach, rubbing it back and forth. He closed his eyes, still smiling. 

"Has anyone ever found you wearing diapers?" Mikey asked after several minutes. 

"You mean... ever?" I asked him. He nodded. "A couple times," I told him. "I could tell you some stories..."

"So tell me one," Mikey asked me, giggling. "I want to hear some diaper stories while I dwink." The way he said drink made me laugh, and I told him one. He started giggling, and choked on his milk. I pulled the bottle out and waited.

"I can't imagine what I'd do if your family came here and saw me wearing a diaper," Mikey told me. "Actually, I guess I do know... I'd want them to accept you wearing one, so I'd probably sit up, turn to them, and act like nothing was wrong..."

"I think they'd wonder why you were diapered and sucking on a baby bottle," I told him, laughing.

"That's just what I do," he told me casually. "I wear diapers and drink from baby bottles. Nothing to see here... no big deal, parents." 

Sure, he would. Little did he know, that was something I'd longed for all my life...

After twenty minutes Mikey's bottle was almost empty, and his tummy full.

"Baby Mikey is gonna be gassy!" he told me, giggling. "I'm not used to milk..."

I asked him if he was lactose intolerant, and he nodded. I was surprised that he hadn't mentioned it sooner, and told him. 

"I think you can handle a gassy baby," he told me. "You've changed worse, I know..." 

As we talked I rubbed his tummy. I wanted to rub his diaper but didn't want to freak him out. We talked about diapers, and he was asking questions about the reactions of my family and friends when we heard it - a vehicle slowing down and then, stopping - before pulling into the driveway.

I looked out the window and saw a truck come past. 

"Someone is here," I told Mikey. He sat bolt upright, a look of panic on his face. 

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "Holy shit! Your parents are home! What do I do???"

I told Mikey to go into the guest room and get into bed. 

I was superannoyed - I'd planned an entire night of diaper fun, and my family had come home, ruining it all? Why had they told me that they would be out of town? Had something happened? 

Thoughts were racing through my head as I tried to clean up the evidence of babysitting - baby bottles, pacifiers, diapers on the chair.... damn.

I heard the porch door creak open, and footsteps. Then... knocking.

Whew... it wasn't my parents. 

I went to the door and saw their friend standing there. He'd been given a truckload of supplies from the event Mikey and I had come from, and he had offered to drop them off, he said. 

"Can you help me unload the truck?" he asked me. 

Damn... Mikey could have been a big help here... with his in-shape, heavy-lifting ass. But he was in a Pamper and laying in bed...

We unloaded the truck, and my parents' friend left. 

I walked down the hall. It was a very hot, very sticky night, and a thunderstorm was coming. I'd been sweating already, and after the near scare, and unloading a full pickup, I was a sweaty mess. Still, when I walked into the bedroom I saw real sweating... Mikey lay on the bed, his diaper only mostly covered, pretending to be asleep - fake snoring, actually - and sweating profusely.

"Bob!" I yelled down the hall. "Mikey's in here... I think he's asleep, but I can wake him up..." 

Mikey and Bob had worked together a lot during the event I mentioned, and they had become friendly. I waited to see if Mikey would stir, but he continued to lay still. I walked in, ripped the blanket covering his bottom off of the bed, and then said "just kidding... Bob left." 

Mikey turned to face me and raised a fist as if he was going to punch me.

"Bro... that was a close call!" he exclaimed. "I thought your parents were gonna see me in Pampers, but for real!"

I laughed.

"What happened to just laying there telling them wearing diapers is just something you do?" I teased him, and he started laughing. 

"Bro, your parents like me... all I could think of is... what will they think if they know I'm wearing a diaper with their son?"

That's my fucking life story, I told him.

It was time for me to jerk off, but first it was time for a few pictures. Mikey had agreed to pose for the blog, and he reminded me of that fact, mentioning several times that the ABU Cushie was an "adorable" diaper. 

He began to pose, and I saw a problem. Mikey had scooted along his bottom, crawled across the floor, climbed onto the couch, curled up on me, and then sprinted into the bedroom. And, he admitted, he'd briefly tried to remove the diaper before giving up and hiding under the covers.

"I knew your rule... DON'T TAMPER WITH YOUR PAMPER," Mikey admitted. He'd read more of my blog than I'd realized. "I didn't want to get that spanking tonight, so I decided to keep it on." He was mostly kidding, now, but I had to laugh. 

I was disappointed, because I was running out of Cushies, and had been looking forward to using one as my 'pillow' while I jerked. 

Mikey turned over and lay on his stomach, and I lay next to him, trying to refasten the tapes before giving up. 

"I'm going to have to re-diaper you," I told him. He frowned. 

"Baby diaper?" 

I shook my head. I was running out of Cushies, and had left them in the car. 

"Big boy diaper."

"Wah!" Mikey's fake crying was cute as hell - and the fact that he was crying out for a realistic baby diaper was dope as fuck. 

We snapped a few photos, and then I diapered him up in something and spent some time rubbing his bottom before doing my thing. 

After I'd squirted I moved up next to Mikey, laying on back my back and rubbing his stomach. To my surprise, he reached over and rubbed mine.

"Is Big Cwis feeling relaxed now?" he asked me in his cutest toddler voice. I couldn't help but smile, and he turned to me and looked very serious. "Before this vacation is over I want to give YOU a bottle," he told me. I beamed... I love being fed bottles, but have a hard time letting ABDLs get me into a regressed role, a mixture of my abysitter persona and trust issues. "Would Cwis wike that?" he continued, smiling too. I nodded, and he smiled. "Cool. But now, I need a favor," he told me. "One more bottle before bed..."

Jactacio capitis nocturna...

That's the scientific name termed for Mikey's condition: a need to rock oneself to sleep.

I'll talk more about it in a future blog entry.

For now, I will say... being rocked to sleep rocks!

How do I know? 

Because, on this night, after two baby bottles, a 'ritual', and some time relaxing, Mikey and I lay next to each other, in the bed in the guest room, listening to thunder in the distance, sucking on pacifiers and talking about diapers. 

And, as I began to drift off to sleep, Mikey began to rock.

I lay in bed, watching Mkey rock back and forth next to me - and found myself lulled into a state of relaxation as the motion of his entire body rocking back and forth caused me to feel rocked, as well.

For more than thirty minutes I lay there, feeling safe and secure. I wondered if this was what being rocked as a baby might have felt like - and it hurt me that Mikey had never had the experience that I had. As I drifted off I thought about how much I had always loved falling asleep on my boat, diapered, with my baby bottle, as the boat rocked back and forth, giving me something of the same sensation. This was even better...

"You're going to love the boat," I murmured to Mikey. 

"I honestly can't wait," he replied.

Within minutes I was asleep. 

Being "rocked" to sleep by a friend is something I can't really adequately describe. It feels... awesome. 

It's a feeling I've wished I could feel every night since...

In 2012 I had hoped that Mikey would make a return to New York for my vacation. He was back on heroin that summer, and didn't. 

In 2013 he wanted to come, and we'd made plans for an airport pickup and everything - and a few weeks before my vacation he was arrested and his car impounded. 

In 2014 I'd given up even asking - he was doing much, much better - but working two jobs with very little chance of getting time off. 

Now, as I stood here looking into this room, I thought about how I'd never get to recreate that moment like I'd subconsciously hoped to. 

[READ THE REST OF THE ME AND MIKEY SERIES HERE - TO BE FINISHED SOON!]

We all have 'magical moments' in our ABDL lives - moments that we feel so at peace with our diapered personas that we wish we could never leave that headspace.

One of mine was that night with Mikey, my vanilla friend who'd transformed himself into one of the most realistic ABDLs I'd ever had the pleasure to diaper. 

This guest room would become something else, now, to some other family. 

To little Chris, it was the room my whole family gathered in, fresh-popped popcorn in hand, to watch Disney movies on Sunday nights at 7 p.m.  

And, later, it was the room we watched movies on the new VCR in. You know all of my movies were Disney classics. 

This was the room my brother and I had played Atari in. 

In high school, it was the room my friend Mark and I had slept in so many times in junior high - it gave us the distance away from my parents that we'd need for privacy, and a hide-a-bed - so we could press up against each other but never go any further, because we were a couple of pussies unafraid to spoon in the middle of the night but too afraid to ever speak about it. 

This room held a ton of memories, mostly grownup type stuff. 

But, as I stood in the doorway, I remembered 'hooky days' - and Mikey. 

I walked upstairs and walked past my brother's bedroom, down the hall to my bedroom, stopping just outside the door.

The end area of my hallway just outside my room had, for many years, been a makeshift nursery, set up for my cousins.

I was ten when my cousin Joey was born, and twelve when my cousin Denise was born, so from aged nine through aged fifteen or so a crib sat outside my door.

It was like my parents knew about my fetish and were torturing me.

But you'd best believe I took advantage of it.

When my cousin was born, his parents began leaving him at our house on weekends. 

Out came the crib - our old crib from when my brother and I were babies. Out came the old 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. 

My parents, of course, didn't know. 

The crib was just outside my room and, at night, when nobody was looking, I'd swipe a diaper from the stack 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 in super slow mo, without so much as a crinkle.

And I did, nearly every night. My plan was foolproof! In the morning I'd pull the diaper out of my undies, wrap it 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.

Then, just about the time he was out of diapers, my aunt and uncle announced another on the way. 

The crib remained. The diapers remained, only I couldn't wear them - they weren't being replaced, and might be missed. 

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

Back to the garbage bag diapers I'd go. 

The crib, of course, was gone now. In fact, nothing remained in this area that had once served as my nursery. I opened the curtain and looked outside the window, and the view instantly took me back - how many times had I looked out this same window laying in the crib, watching for headlights to pull in to the driveway?

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 conscientious 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 me.

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.

After an appropriate amount of time had passed 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 make my diaper, and then 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. 

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, one that served me well: I'd turn on the television downstairs in the den, 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 those television 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. 

I pushed the door open to my room and stood in the doorway.

My twin bed, left over from childhood, was still there.

The curtains were there. The dresser was there. The desk was there.

Ribbons from swim meets won as a teenager hung in the same place I'd hung them before.

Clippings from magazines still decorated the back of my door.

Almost nothing had changed, really.

Except, at some point between my visit over the summer and this day, my parents had taken all of the items they'd been storing in my room out. Old lamps, a floor fan, and boxes of hand-me-downs had accumulated over the years. Now, they were gone. Those things had gone with the movers. Today my room was almost exactly as it had been when I'd left it at age 18.

I set my bag down on the floor and pulled out my diaper.

Part of me wanted to put it on right at that moment, but I walked across the room and hid it between my mattress and box spring - the same place I'd hidden so many diapers - hundreds, probably - growing up.

This room was the room that I'd developed my diaper fetish in.

As a little kid, this was the room that I'd sneak cloth diapers to, or diapers belonging to my cousins, or my homemade Hefty diapers. At night I'd lay in bed, diapered, with a flashlight and pad and pen, writing diapererotic stories - the kind that could only be conjured up by the mind of a mostly-innocent nine year-old boy with no idea about sex, but a very strong idea that he belonged in diapers... 

Older kids in my school often found their way into my stories, and in school I'd often feel awkward when I saw them, some weird feeling between wanting to hide in a corner and wanting to stuff my latest story - already shredded into pieces at home so as never to be discovered - into their backpack. 

When I was in sixth grade, a seventh grader named Dean was a recurring character in my post-bedtime diaper novellas. He was my "big bro", and I'd pen these detailed scenarios where Dean would take me to do big bro-type things - fishing, play football, and other things I'd never do in a million years without Dean's involvement. 

In real life Dean was quite possibly the coolest kid in his grade, and I wasn't even close to being the coolest kid in mine, so it would seem that we'd rarely have occasion to meet. Except for some reason, weeks into my Dean stories, he began taking an interest in me, making it a point to say hello and even sitting with me at study hall a few times. One time one of his friends bumped into me in the hall and dropped his books, and the kid got pissed and gave me a push. Dean came in out of nowhere, like a superhero, and choke-holded the kid until he apologized. Then he picked the kid's books up for him, and tossed them in the trash. 

After that, of course, Dean was my hero. I never understood why he sided with a little doofus over one of his best friends, that day. At the time, my pre-teen mind convinced me that perhaps he was reading it - maybe he could understand how I felt about him, essentially my first 'crush' before I even understood what that meant. When I look back on it now I wonder if my puppy dog worship was more evident than I realized - maybe he could tell. I don't know. 

But he'd continue as a starring character in my stories for almost a year. 

It almost hurt when, the spring of that year, he was walking with me to study hall and someone shouted out "Yo, Diaper Dean!" 

I stopped walking. At that moment I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. Thoughts raced through my crazed little mind - had I accidentally brought a notebook to school and been discovered? Had my brother found one of my stories and showed it to Dean? Could this kid actually read my mind? What the fuck... 

"C'mon," he said to me. He'd stopped, for no reason, and was waiting for me. 

"Okay," I said. But, of course, I had to ask. "Why did he just call you Diaper Dean?" 

"I dressed up as a baby for a Halloween party this year," Dean explained. 

"In a diaper?" I asked him. 

"Yea, bro. Diaper, pacifier, the whole works." 

"What made you..." 

He interrupted me, and seemed irritated. 

"It was just a costume, man. I really don't to talk about it, okay?" 

I didn't understand what diaper fetish was at that age. I had no idea it was even a thing. I honestly believed, at that point in my life, that something was wrong with me - that I'd just never outgrown diapers and everyone else had. 

Hearing that Dean had worn a diaper to a costume party wasn't any sort of awakening for me. In fact, if anything, I think that I felt ashamed at that moment. I felt like Dean's sporting baby gear at a party had been a joke of some sort - almost like the joke was on me, although he couldn't possibly have known about my love for diapers. 

It never occurred to me that I might be in the middle of my first encounter with another ABDL. 

But, looking back on it, I sometimes wonder if that was the case. 

That day, after his admission, he looked at me funny when we walked up to my study hall table. 

"Do you still want to sit with me?" he asked me. 

"Do you still want to sit with ME?" I asked. I don't know why. 

He put his bag down at the same time I did, but it seemed super awkward. 

Dean made appearances in a few more stories, but it didn't seem the same now. I kept thinking of Dean in his costume, everyone laughing and making jokes, and it felt like he was in on the joke. The whole thing... all of my little big bro - li'l bwo fantasies... it all felt... wrong.

Soon after this I would discover masturbation, and the stories would no longer take center-stage during my nights diapered in this room, anyway. 

Dean would move on to another school, and I'd mostly forget about him until years later, as I started this blog and began telling my stories.

[NOTE: Looked up Dean on Facebook. He's still amazing. Almost want to hit him up. Dean, if you happen to be a closet ABDL and read this blog... hehehe... sigh.]

I lay down on my bed.

If the walls in this room could talk, there would be quite a story to tell.

Hundreds of diapers worn through the years.

Cloth diapers, from when I was just a little kid trying to desperately hold onto infancy.

Homemade disposable diapers.

Diapers snuck out of the stash by my cousins' crib - diapers so small they didn't fit me, stuffed into a pair of my father's underpants as a makeshift diaper, or just placed under my pillow so I could smell Pampers all night and just feel little.

Finally, adult diapers, once I discovered their existence.

One night, I discovered ejaculation.

And, like it probably was for almost all of us - it was amazing.

A-ma-zing!

It happened purely by accident.

I was laying on my stomach, writing one of my stories. I used to use a nightlight which would allow me to see the pages and, most nights, avoid detection by the parentals.

I'd lay, paper toweled (diapered), writing away. Sometimes I would suck on a pacifier (hidden well in the deep, dark recesses of my room in the morning) or drink from a sippy cup. Other nights I would just lay there, in bed, trying to feel little. I would do my drawings, and write my stories and 'babysitting guides', and - as I thought up new ideas - just lay on my stomach, daydreaming of what life would be like if I didn't have to hide my toddler side and try so hard to avoid detection.

This particular night I was writing a story. It was a story similar to one of my favorite book series at the time, The Hardy Boys. In my version, though, boy-detectives Frank and Joe Hardy couldn't solve a mystery without putting a Pamper on each other first. And, of course, their mysteries involved things like... well, missing diapers.

Yea, I was corny. A dork. All of that.

Still, I would lay there and write the beginning of a story. I pictured myself sending it off to author Franklin W. Dixon for inclusion in next book, thereby bringing the concept of diapering to the masses. Eventually I would fall asleep and, by the time I woke the next day, I'd lose interest in my story, or be embarrassed by it. It would be torn up and thrown in the trash most of the time. 

On this particular night the Hardy brothers were driving around Bayport, trying to figure out who had stolen all of the diapers in the town. Would they solve the mystery before one of them had to take a piss?

My little eleven year-old ass was laying on the mattress, chilling in my own diaper as I put my brilliant plot twists down on paper. I would often enjoy the feeling of the diaper against my penis while I wrote and - as I'm sure we're all familiar with - pull the diaper up into my behind, letting it caress my ass and enjoying the sensation I got as it did.

At some point I found myself moving my body up and down as I wrote. I don't know why. The feeling was awesome, though, and my penis was erect. I was actually distracted from my writing for a minute... I couldn't believe how good this felt!

I stopped writing eventually, just humping away. I was probably imagining some plot twist at the time, I don't remember. I think I humped for an hour or two, and loved every second of it. Fuck this diaper diatribe! 

And then it happened: I squirted. 

I will never forget that moment.

I went from feeling amazing to feeling horrified and humiliated all in a few seconds.

As with most eleven year olds, my body was saving up for many years for this one moment.

I didn't just squirt - I gushed.

It was like I peed in my diaper. 

The front of the towel was soaked with semen. Gooey, sticky semen.

I remember being stunned. It might sound funny now, but I thought that I had wet myself, yet somehow knew that wasn't what had happened. I instantly reached down into my diaper and felt myself: my penis was soft, my diaper was soaked, and my mattress was wet.

And my hand was... sticky. 

I slowly turned over onto my back and lay, looking upward.

What the fuck had just happened?!

As children my brother and I were probably pretty sheltered. I had no idea what sex was, even at age eleven. I'd never heard the term 'cum', or 'come', or anything similar.

I'd heard kids call each other out on 'having wet dreams' in school, but I had honestly thought that they were talking about dreams involving swimming, shit like that. I obviously didn't grasp the concept. And I'd certainly never had a wet dream. I'd never woken up sticky, icky... nothing.

But tonight... I'd gone from envisioning diapered detectives solving the Case of the Missing Case of Huggies to trying to solve the mystery of what had just squirted out of my penis.

And, like all of us, I experienced that shameful, regretful feeling we all get after we squirt.

I pledged not to hump anymore.

I swore I'd stop writing these gay-ass stories. 

And the towels were for drying off after a bath - I swore I'd throw this towel in the laundry in the morning and stop wearing them to bed. No more towel-diapers for me!

I wondered what my parents would think if they realized that their eleven year-old son had 'wet the bed' - and the embarrassment and shame increased.

Thoughts that something might be wrong with me went through my mind.

But I was a horny little eleven year-old.

I lay, shamed, bewildered, for more than an hour.

And, at some point, I began to relive the moment I'd squirted.

It had felt... magical.

The shame and guilt began to decrease, to diminish.

Eventually I realized... I wanted that feeling back.

That amazing feeling I got when my terrycloth diaper bunched up into my asscrack. The feeling I had as I humped. And the sheer ecstasy I felt as I squirted all over myself? I wanted to repeat it.

I eventually turned over. Shameful feelings diminishing. I humped some more. Shameful feeling gone. And, after a lesser period of time - maybe thirty minutes - I squirted again.

I would squirt three times total that night.

(What I wouldn't give to have that stamina today!)

How many times had I humped the shit out of this same bed growing up?

Trying so hard not to creak my mattress.

Trying to hard not to crinkle and be detected by my brother next door or my parents across the hall.

This was the room I perfected my diaper hiding techniques in.

This was the room I strategized my 'sneak adult diapers into the house' strategies in.

It all seems so silly now, but we all understand: that time of our lives where diapers seem very much like live hand grenades - we want desperately to hold them, afraid to let go of the pin, but we know that, in the wrong hands, they can cause an awful lot of destruction.

I left my room and walked across the hall to my parents' bedroom. 

This room was probably where it really all began.

The furniture was all gone, now. I think they'd replaced it when I was in college, anyway, but as I walked in I found only the air mattress they'd been sleeping on since the movers left.

I needed do nothing more than close my eyes and be transported back to when I was six years old. Same bed. Same furniture. Same loveseat my mother would sit on, working on things while my brother and I played... 

As a child, maybe four or five years of age, my brother and I would often dress up and play "Superhero" in my parents' room. 

You remember running around the house in your Underoos, pretending to be Batman, Spidey, or Superman as a kid, right? 

Well, my brother and I used to do that often. 

All summer, really. 

But, as often as we'd wear our Underoos, we'd wear diapers, instead. 

I remember that, for a while, both of us would ask to be allowed to wear diapers during playtime. My mother wasn't really crazy about it, but we'd insist. We'd pretend that we were "Superbabies" or something, and run around the house, and even the yard, in cloth diapers - environmentalist parents, lol - and, usually, nothing else. 

My parents' bedroom was 'home base', since that's where my mother would sit doing her work, so my earliest diaper memories involve this room. 

Seems weird, I know. But it doesn't seem weird at all when you're a little kid. And we thought nothing of it. And 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. 

Eventually, my brother began to put on his Superman underoos. 

I remember feeling betrayed - I loved the feeling that cloth diapers gave me - I don't think anything could have made me feel better. 

He was growing up, and moving on. I remember trying to convince him to go with a diaper instead of Underoos. But, eventually, he was done with diapers, and when we'd play I'd still be rocking a cloth diaper, but the dynamic felt different. 

At some point, my parents decided that we'd both 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???

I wondered, later, about the conversation my parents must have had. Had they notice something wrong in the wiring of their son's brain? Did they discuss needing to take diapers away? Were they watching my reaction? 

I remember putting up a fuss, and feeling ashamed when the told me that diapers were for babies. 

Ashamed, angry, and pretty fucking resentful. 

That was the day I discovered that I actually NEED diapers.

I wouldn't understand why for many years... 

I walked out of my parents' bedroom and into the hallway.

At the end of the hall was what was known as our 'storage room'.

It was a huge room over half the house, almost like an attic but on the same level as the second floor bedrooms. Over the course of our lives it had become a treasure trove of memories - for all of us.

For my brother, this is where his train set had been set up. It was elaborate and took up a lot of space, and there was nowhere else in the house it could go. I used to sneak in on 'hooky days' and play with it, careful to leave it exactly as I'd found it.

For my father, this was where his college memorabilia was stored. I'd found his undergraduate diploma, books that had meant something to him, and a ton of yearbooks.

And, his fraternity paddle. Which is how my secondary spanking fetish took hold.

For my mother, this room took on a life of its own. We would joke that she could guest on an episode of hoarders, because everything else was here, too.

For me, though, that was a good thing.

Because, as much as it annoyed me growing up, returning home on my summer vacations, walking through this room was like boarding a time machine to my childhood.

I'd pad up, walk in, and start rummaging.

Little Golden Books were always on hand to entertain me - I just had to find them.

Old toys from infancy through to childhood.

Puzzles, board games, and stuffed animals.

My mother doesn't believe in throwing things that contributed to memories.

When I was younger, this was the place our baby supplies went, as well.

I remember one occasion, circa age eight or nine. My family was having a pool party and picnic at the house, and there were probably half a dozen kids, from age two to age fifteen, along with some adults. Everyone had gone swimming, and the grill was in the process of being fired up. Someone suggested a game of badminton - our friends had brought their badminton supplies, lol - and everyone was excited to play. Since only two of the kids were in my family and the remaining five kids in the other, family vs. family was out; instead someone suggested teams be chosen. Great idea, I said! Pick teams, and I'll be right back... just have to go inside for a second.

I remember going into the house and peeing in the toilet. The window was open, and the breeze was wafting in. When you're eight years old you're both asexual and hypersexual, all at the same time; all it took was the wind on my winkie and I was aroused.

I flushed, wash my hands, and began to walk out of the room, and something stopped me. It was an odor. I instinctively knew what it was right away: wet diaper. I walked around the room searching for the source, and quickly found it: taped up in a little ball in the trash can, there it was - a soaked disposable diaper.

Most people would be disgusted by this, but as ABDLs many of us have had similar experiences. I picked up the garbage can in both hands and raised it to my nose as if I was preparing to smell a delicious dish being prepared on the stove. The diaper was recent, and the smell of baby powder and baby pee was, in my eight year old brain, something exciting. I resisted the urge to pull the diaper out of the garbage can and, instead, put it down. I slowly left the room, headed for the yard, but something stopped me. Instead I walked up the stairs to the second floor and headed for the storage attic. There were diapers there the last time I checked, and something caused me to make a beeline for them.

I rummaged through the storage attic for about ten minutes before I found them: a pile of Birdseye cloth diapers. I searched through the pile until I found the biggest diaper - a defect of some kind, but very convenient for me on several occasions past. I lay the diaper on the floor and carefully put the remaining diapers away, listening to the sounds of yelped excitement from outside and carefully listening for the sounds of any activity inside. Thankfully, there was none.

The diaper pins were in a bag next to the diapers. I grabbed two, baby blue teddy bears, and dropped my pants. I sat down on the diaper and let the cloth rub against my bottom. It felt so tight... I instantly felt different, and I loved the feeling. It was a feeling I'd felt many times before but, this time, it was intensified by the fact that so many people were directly on the other side of the window I was diapering myself in front of. I could have opened the curtains and everyone would have seen... what a rush! LOL...

I realized that, to complete the feeling, I needed powder. We didn't have any in the house at the time, but I gambled that our friends with the 2yo did. I scampered down the stairs and found their diaper bag by the door. I unzipped it, removed a bottle of Johnson & Johnson, and zipped it back up, whooshing back up the stairs.

I sat back down on the diaper and lay back. The windows were open a little, and the breeze hit my penis again - mmmhmmm. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds from outdoors. I heard my brother shouting something about the birdie, one of our family friends saying "Get it! Get it!" and collective groans from the gallery as he apparently missed. As I lay, my bottom square on a cloth diaper, I didn't feel weird in the least. Quite the opposite... everything felt right with the world.

I picked up the bottle of baby powder, unscrewed the cap, and raised it above myself. Without opening my eyes I let it fall, sprinkling my private parts, and sending a big squirt between my legs to cover my behind. I tightened the cap, put the bottle down, and reached forward, grabbing the front corners of the diapers and pulling it up over me.

Oh my God... the feeling was... awesome. I lay there, pulling the cloth diaper tight against my penis, letting it envelope me in softness and the aroma of Johnson & Johnson. I still hadn't discovered ejaculation, or anything of that nature, but I knew what felt good when I felt it, and this felt... so good. I lay there for about five minutes, just holding it there and enjoying the feeling. I heard someone ask "Where's Christopher?" but I wasn't about to give away my hiding spot. For a little bit I was Cwistopher, and I imagined myself, in this same diaper, crawling around in the log while the big kids played badminton. It was a feeling I didn't want to give up.

After five minutes or more I had to decide whether to pin the diaper up or take it off and go back to being Chris. Wearing the diaper outside was a real risk; first, it would barely fit, and I'd have to stretch it and strain the pins to get it to work. I had visions of the pin snapping open and busting apart, ricocheting off my groin and poking me in the penis as I desperately tried to hide the fact that I was in pain - eek! Second, my brother was going through a pants-ing phase, and while his last pants-ing had been met with a fierce swat on the behind from my father, I couldn't guarantee that the exhilaration of embarrassing me in front of so many friends might not be worth the sore bottom. How humiliating would it be to be exposed as a diaper wearer?

Actually, that might be a plus...

I knew for a fact that I did not want to give up the feeling I had at that moment, and something made me reach for the pins, stretch that diaper out, and fasten it on. I carefully stood up, feeling the diaper inch up into my asscrack. It was tight against my skin, and I slowly bent over, touched my toes, and stretched all around to see if it would hold. It did.

I picked up the bottle of powder and began making my way to the stairs when the front door opened. I panicked instantly - maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. I heard the babbling of a two year old, and some rustling, and I stood statue-still, being so carefulnot to make a sound. I heard zipping, unzipping, and more rustling. Then our family friend called outside to her husband.

"Honey... did you do something with the baby powder?"

I froze. I could feel myself sweating. My parents were somewhat familiar with my diaper desires, and I wondered if they were looking at each other, shaking their heads. Oh, that explains where Christopher has been for fifteen minutes...

"No, I haven't touched the diaper bag," the husband called back in. "Maybe you left it at home?"

"Maybe," she called back out. I heard her mumbling about being sure she'd brought it. It hit me: I'd found a wet diaper in the garbage can. If she'd changed her baby since they'd arrived surely she'd had it then. What had this lady done, brought a wet diaper from home and just tossed it into our trash? I was offended - and, quite probably, resentful. And jealous.

I listened to the sounds of her changing her baby, and I remember wishing she'd get mine next. (I was dry, lol). I pictured myself walking down the stairs and past her, stopping as she called out "Wait, Christopher, I have your diaper right here..." and pulling out a monster version of her son's Pamper from her purse. More jealous...

She went back outside with the baby, and I realized that I couldn't put the baby powder back into the diaper bag now. Bonus? I hid it behind a filing cabinet where I was pretty sure it wouldn't be found, and went back down stairs.

I walked gingerly outside, into the fray of commotion, now very aware of my diapered status. The feeling was fucking awesome - everyone running around getting dinner ready for playing games while I - Baby Cwis - enjoyed the feeling of a tight cloth diaper loaded with baby powder on me.

My brother and one of the older kids called out for me to join the game but I declined, giving some lame-ass excuse about not feeling well. My father called for me to come sit by him, and I obediently walked over and, realizing that all of the lawn chairs were taken by adults, parked my bottom on a blanket on the ground - the same blanket the two year-old had been playing on earlier. He was in a playpen now, unfolded on the grass, and I so wanted to crawl over and climb in. Instead I lay back on the blanket, carefully checked my shirt to make sure no diaper was exposed over my shorts, and watched the clouds in the sky.

This was truly one of the most relaxing moments of my life, and one that I will never forget.

After thirty minutes of this the smells of steaks (for the grownups) and hamburgers (for the kids) wafted through the air. Someone remarked that it smelled good, another person called for everyone to grab a plate, and it was time to eat.

As I got up my father looked directly at me. I'll never forget the way he looked at me, or what he said.

"I smell baby powder."

I probably instantly blushed, and I'm sure my little eight year-old mind began whirring, strategizing as only an eight year-old can.

"Well, there is a baby here," I replied.

My father just nodded. And then he said something I won't forget.

"There is one. Well, at least one," he said. With that he headed to the table.

[READ THE REST OF THIS STORY HERE]

The back room was completely empty, now - years of memories on a moving pallet somewhere, or donated to charity, or taken to the landfill. It occurred to me that I should have taken what I wanted over the summer. Old cloth diapers, for memory's sake. That paddle. A copy of The Poky Little Puppy. A favorite stuffed animal, at least... 

...I didn't want anything to spoil the nostalgia, though, so I put it out of my mind. 

As I walked back through the house it occurred to me that the next owners would likely have kids.

I knew that there was a good chance that her children, all elementary school aged, would probably grow up in this house, just as I had.

Her boys would probably discover things like masturbation in this house.

Kids had grown up in this house since the 1870s, and I pictured the adolescents who'd come before me - kids fantasizing about their own Deans during WWI, and WWI, and all of the different eras this house had stood for.

Had a diaper fetishist lived here in all those years?

I knew that the chances were slim. We are such a tiny segment of society, really. But I remembered being little, hearing old neighbors visiting laughing as they'd tell stories of cloth diapers drying on the clothesline at our house in decades past. They talked about a lot of other things, too, but my little ears perked up when I heard the mention of diapers, and I remember hearing that before. Several times. Who knows what had gone on here?

I wondered if a fellow diaper lover would ever inhabit it again?

Our community is growing at an exponential rate. I remember predicting, back when I was blogging on MySpace, that our community would explode, the result of diaper companies making bigger and bigger diapers. Pampers Size 5 was a thing, and older kids were being kept in diapers longer and longer - a surefire way to help create the conditions that turn into a fetish, as many of us know. There was certainly a chance that it could happen again one day.

But the chances were far greater that it wouldn't.

I pictured this house in human form, for a moment. What if all of the other people who had ever inhabited it were normal, missionary, vanilla people? What if the people who'd come before me were boring as fuck, and this house had never before seen the likes of Little Cwis, sneaking cloth diapers from storage, sleeping in a crib way too small for him, and manufacturing diapers out of all sorts of materials?

I felt like this house knew all of my secrets - and had hid them for me for all of those years.

Like we were partners in some serious fetish stuff, going back decades.

Before I'd developed the courage to tell anyone about my fetish, I'd talked about it to myself - and the walls of this house had heard it all.

Now it would go back to being... a normal, vanilla house, maybe.

As ridiculous as it must sound, I wanted to thank it.

Making garbage bag diapers takes a lot of work. 

And a lot of materials. 

Think of the paper towel commercials. Sometimes those paper towels hold the heavy object they put on them to impress you - and sometimes they don't. 

Early version's of Cwis's Hefty Diapers used poor-quality paper towels. They could barely handle the flood of urine they'd have to take, let alone Cwis humping the shit out of them. 

When you're done playing baby, you're left with a big garbage bag with urine-soaked paper towels duct-taped together. The paper towels are likely falling apart. They begin to stink fairly quickly. You need to get rid of them fast. 

As an adolescent, I became a master of folding, rolling, and taping huge diapers into small packages that blended in with the bottom of the trash container. 

But there were exceptions. On days that I was surprised with a parent coming home early, or the UPS guy walking up into the side porch like he owned the house, that diaper was ripped off in a flash. There was no time for the trash. So I took to running into the basement and tossing them over this huge stone wall into some sort of well. 

This happened quite a bit, actually. 

Usually I was surprised and in a hurry. But other times I was just tossing a diaper that was too rank for the trash. I'd discovered that this spot in the corner of the basement was a deep cavern by accident, and realized after my first 'toss' that no odor would be detected. 

Now, as I began to think about the house's next owners, I wondered if they'd ever remodel the basement and perhaps discover that heap of homemade diapers - and what the fuck they'd think when they did. 

In that corner, down in some deep-ass cavernous dry well, was the representation of my ABDL growth. 

Or, a disgusting pile of pissy garbage bags. 

It's all in the perspective, I guess. 

Maybe there was one secret this house wouldn't keep...

I walked back downstairs, still marveling at the emptiness of it all.

It's a strange, sad feeling, being in the house that one grew up in for the last time.

I recognize that I am lucky to be able to experience it.

My brother and his wife were pulling into the driveway, now. They came into the house and told me that our parents were right behind them. I stepped off into the den/guest room and stood by the curtain, watching for them to pull into the driveway.

This is the last time I'll ever do THIS, I told myself. I had to laugh at the irony.

A few minutes later they were in the house. No sooner had my mother mentioned how nice it was for everyone to be together for one more meal - and how much nicer it would be if only the WHOLE family was here - than I walked out into the dining room and said hello.

After a few seconds of shocked silence - the look on my mom's face was priceless - and some tears - we all took one last walk through the house - and down memory lane - as a family.

I'd decided not to wear my Dry 24/7 during dinner, and I was glad. There were a lot of memories shared at the table that night, and I'm not sure being diapered would have added to that, or taken away from it. It could wait until bedtime, I thought...

As the other members of my family began to mention heading off to bed, I realized that I'd need to head to bed soon too if I wanted to Pamp up in peace. Wouldn't want to get caught crinkling on my last night! I hugged my parents good night, brushed my teeth, and then went up to my bedroom.

I pulled my diaper out from between my mattress, and grabbed the baby powder and wipes.

I sat there, on my bed, holding it all, staring at my Dry 24/7, and this flood of memories began rushing back to me.

This blog entry is ridiculously long already, and to begin to tell you some of the memories I had in those moments would lengthen it two or three times its current word count, easily.

You've probably heard the saying "your whole life flashes before your eyes..."

So much of my life flashed through my eyes that night.

I'm not sure how long I sat on my bed for, but I remembered things I hadn't thought of in years.

It was like I'd gone back in time - I was picturing myself at age 5, 6, 7, and on and on.

It all seemed so real, and it felt amazing.

As I sat there on my bed, I began to think about how I'd sit in this same room feeling dirty, disgusted, and ashamed, hating my need for diapers... my attraction to diapers... my need to wear diapers.

I remembered hearing Dr. Ruth talking about masturbation in diapers on a radio program, and feeling like I was doing damage to my penis and, with that, damaging myself sexually for a lifetime. 

Slowly, over time, I began to think about how I'd slowly come to accept my diaper side. To embrace it. And, after leaving for college and discovering the internet, how I'd come home for holidays feeling not just normal, but lucky to have a diaper fetish. 

I thought about all that I've seen in the years since. The dozens of friends I've made in this community - friend who, without the common interest of diapers, I probably would never have met. 

Years ago I had sat in this same room, feeling alone - thinking I was the only person anyway, ever, who still yearned for diapers well past puberty. 

Tonight I would return as the author of an ABDL blog that so many people have told me helped them make sense of their own diaper selves. 

I sat there, thinking of a number of you, and after a while I had a realization... 

I'd put an awful lot of stock into this Dry 24/7 I'd brought. 

I'd wanted my last diaper at the house I'd grown up in to be perfect.

In the end, though, the sum of all of the experiences I'd had in this house I'd grown up in couldn't possibly be capped by any one night in a diaper. 

The thought of it seemed silly, now. 

Wearing it would almost seem like cheapening my last night here. 

So I did something I'd never expect myself to do. I opened the baby powder and squirted some into the air - just enough to give the room the scent of powder. Then I put the bottle back in my backpack, along with the wipes. I slid the Dry 24/7 under my pillow, as I had so many times with baby diapers growing up. And, just like that, I went to sleep - completely at peace with the world.