Coming Out Of The Closet...

[ABYSITTER'S NOTE] Forgive me for not continuing the Chris story so far... I've gotten a bunch of emails/texts from people wondering where the next installment is. The thing is, it takes some energy to write about real-life stuff; I have to re-live it and then figure out how to put it into words. I've started an entry but things are hella busy and I haven't had time to finish it. Stay tuned... today, just a quick story or two...

A few years ago, before I moved from upstate New York, I rented a two-bedroom apartment smack-dab on the shore of a lake. It was tight as fck. I had the shore to myself on most of my days off, and actually got bold enough to wear only a diaper as I lounged around to get a tan. In the afternoon neighbors would begin to come home and I'd have to slap on some swim shorts, but for a few hours it would just be me, my diaper, and the sun. I loved it.

The apartment was cool, too. It was a townhouse-type place with two floors. The lower floor had a kitchen, a fully-stocked bar (woot woot!), and the living room, complete with a huge picture window overlooking the lake. I had four aquariums and a ton of nautical decor, and it was a pretty cool place to hang out. Upstairs were the two bedrooms; the smaller back bedroom, which I used as a guest room/office, and my bedroom on the lake side.

I had people over a lot. Most of my friends would drive out from the city, about an hour away, and spend the weekend. We'd have fires on the beach, mix drinks, and cook out. Good times. I also had the opportunity to do a lot of diapering. Between a roommate who liked to wear for me, people who'd done the diapers-for-dough thing and were up for a ride and an afternoon at the lake, and a few friends who wore just to do it - yep, I have tight friends like that - I probably Pampered people a few dozen times. Bedroom, beach, you name it.

Plus, I am AB myself, and when I can, I like to take a day (or night, or weekend, or whenever), diaper up, and let Cwis come out to pway. Wearing diapers on the rocks is fun, but an afternoon of crawling around, sucking on a paci and sipping from a baby bottle - that's an afternoon of relaxation and fun.

So, to keep my diaper life separate from the party side of the place - and to make sure I was readily stocked with supplies whenever I had the chance to diaper someone, or myself - I created "Cwis's Closet".

The closet was a small walk-in off the side of my bedroom. I put a dresser inside of it, and stocked that motherfucker up. Every kind of diaper you can imagine, from the blue ones I used to get in Buffalo to Attends, X-Plus, even Depend... drawers full of diapers.

I had a virtual collection of baby bottles, too. The short, fat ones; the tall, thin ones; the kind with the little baggies; even the ones that are bent to reduce gas? All of them. And they took up a whole shelf of their own. Hanging from that shelf: a half-dozen pacifiers. Each on their own paci-leash. I had a different pacifier for every day of the week. I don't know why, but when I go shopping and see a pacifier I like... I have to have it.

Hanging up on one side were my baby clothes. Footed sleeper, cartoon t-shirts and jammies, Underoos... all hanging from hangers, sort of spread out just enough to give you a concept of the collection.

And, of course, I had wipes, powder, and everything else you'd find in a diaper bag. And I had a lot... of empties. See, every time I finish a bottle of powder I put it back on the shelf, and then put the new one next to it. So if you'd looked into my closet at the time, you would have seen about twenty bottles of baby powder, and a half-dozen boxes of wipes. At least, you would've thought that's what you were seeing. If you are an AB, it was impressive site.

To finish it off, I had the closet decorated like a nursery. I took a nursery-print sheet and covered the back with it, and hung a crib mobile I found at a second-hand store from the ceiling. And one day when I was in a particularly sitterish mood I went to Big Lots, bought a bunch of different 'baby' picture frames, and put a few pictures I'd taken in them. They were strategically placed in the closet.

In short, it had everything except a crib. And while it wasn't as nice as an actual nursery, I guarantee that if you were an actual ABDL you would step inside, smell the diapers and baby powder and take in the sights around you, and piss yourself.

Kyle, The Closet, and the Sheriff...

I tell you all of this not to brag about my 7x10' baby space, but to set up the story of what comes next.

For about six months of my time on the lake I had a roommate. We'll call him Kyle.

Kyle was college-aged but too dumb for college. He was beautiful, with model good-looks. And, when we were simply friends, he'd seemed pretty mature. It wasn't until I agreed to let him live with me that I began to see his true side.

Kyle, you see, was a fucking idiot.

Those of you who get to wear diapers with me and lay next to be in the 'crib' will get to hear some crazy Kyle stories. I won't bore you with them here. But let me say that, when you do hear them, you'll laugh; the kid is/was truly retarded. It's too bad it took me a few months to figure that out.

Kyle wore diapers for me one day a few weeks after moving in. He was a beautiful sight, his tanned, chiseled body enveloped in a Pamper. He crawled around a lot, sucked his thumb, and baby-babbled, and it was cute. He wasn't ABDL but he'd offered to wear, no doubt attempting to ensure his stay when his rent money ran out, and I couldn't resist. For weeks afterward he'd talk 'baby talk' all over town, asking me if I'd brought his sippy cup at the diner and referring to horses we passed as "nay-nay's". It was cute, and didn't begin to get annoying for a while.

Eventually Kyle was wearing a lot, and it began to lose its appeal. I'd come home from a tough day at work and he'd be laying in my bed in a disposable diaper. I'd just want to go to sleep, and Kyle would be prancing around in a Pamper. His personality began to show through around this time; he started to become argumentative, even about stupid stuff, and the fact that he'd be diapered while he was arguing didn't make it any less irritating.

To make matters worse, Kyle quit his job and then, because he didn't have reliable transportation, couldn't find a new one. The lake isn't on a public bus route, and his job at a local store was one of the few jobs within riding distance of where we lived. I was pissed, and though he offered to wear diapers more often to cover his share of the rent until he found something, even his adorableness wasn't enough. Eventually, I let him know that he'd have to start looking for a place that was better situated to allow him to work, etc.

Kyle didn't want to move. Why should he? The lake was the party spot, full of every kind of liquor imaginable, good cookout food, and friends coming and going on a daily basis. He'd be returning to life in the 'hood, sleeping on someone's couch, and fighting for a spot at the local pool - the 'public potty'.

Kyle became more argumentative, I wanted him to move out more, and things worsened.

"Starve him out," my friends were recommending. "Stop stocking the fridge." As a last-ditch effort I stopped buying groceries. We figured that, if Kyle got hungry enough, he'd start to want to move. I was wrong...

Somehow, Kyle began to shop for himself. I'd come home from 10-12 hour workdays to find Kyle lounging in a diaper, sucking down Little Debbie snack cakes and drinking soda - an idiot's idea of nutrition. I was impressed by his resourcefulness - using his trips into town with the neighbors to shop for himself? Maybe I'd never get rid of him...

Right.

One day I came home from work to find my apartment door unlocked. I was pissed, because Kyle knew I don't like to leave doors unlocked, even if I was just down at the beach; pretty irresponsible, I was thinking.

I walked upstairs and into my room and, to my surprise, the door to my closet was wide open, diapers and decorations plainly in view. WTF.

The closet was routinely locked, and while Kyle had seen me get the key to unlock it once or twice, and eventually accessed it himself to get himself diapered before I'd come home, I assumed he would be smart enough to keep it locked. Even more pissed I locked the door, walked back downstairs, and headed for the beachfront to try to find Kyle.

As I was walking across the driveway my neighbor pulled up.

"Did you hear what happened?" she asked me, all excited to have some gossip to share.

"Uh, no... I've been at work," I replied.

"The Sheriff's Department arrested Will and Kyle!" she told me. "They've been stealing from the store they worked at, and the Sheriff showed up here with a warrant for their arrest."

My neighbor had been dating Will, and he and Kyle had become friends. I'd come home to find Will and Kyle both wearing diapers one day, and while I was annoyed that Kyle had shared my ABDL secret with someone, it was cute, and it became clear that Kyle had given his friend the impression that diapers were his thing, not mine.

I'd also gotten the impression that Will was intelligent. Kyle, on the other hand...

We were talking about the thefts - my neighbor admitting she'd never driven either of them to the store to buy anything, contrary to Kyle's claims - and it hit me: my door was unlocked; my closet door was open.

"Uhh... did the deputies go... into... my place, at all?" I asked her.

"Oh my God, yes!" she exclaimed. "They searched every inch of your place, my place, even the neighbor on the other side's place!"

Oh, fuck...

A week later I got a letter from jail - from Will - and got to hear the story.

A team of sheriff's deputies had come to the apartment building with a warrant. They'd knocked on each door and searched every apartment top to bottom. Mine was the last one, and by the time Will and Kyle realized why they were there, it was too late; they were under arrest. You see, surveillance camera + your former boss = certain arrest. Like I said, Kyle was an idiot.

Will explained that the deputies had searched the rest of the house, and found all of the food/candy/soda that was stolen. They entered my room last, and demanded that Kyle open the locked closet door.

"Uh, that belongs to my roommate," Kyle had said. "He won't be happy with me if I unlock his stuff."

"We have a warrant," they'd replied.

"I don't want to get in trouble," Kyle had said, in handcuffs. "I think I'm gonna pass. You can break the door down if you want to."

Instead, a deputy popped the lock, opened the door, and... voila.

I can't even imagine the looks on their faces when they opened the door and saw a stack of huge diapers, enough baby bottles and pacifiers to stock a nursery ward at the hospital and - best of all - photos of diapered wiggers. OMG.

According to Will, the deputies were speechless. One opened a drawer, looked inside, closed it, and turned to face the others.

"Well, no stolen goods in here," he said. And, with that, they each turned and walked out, Kyle and Will in tow.

On the ride in to jail the oldest of the deputies turned around in his seat, looked at Will, and asked him, point blank: "So is that... a diaper feetish? Or are those... medical?"

Will told me it was all he could do to not laugh at the old man's mispronounciation of the word. And, at the man's ignorance; he'd seen baby bottles, pacifiers, even pictures - and was asking if the diapers were medically necessary."

"FETish," Will told him.

The old man sat shaking his head and, after a minute or so of silence, admitted having heard of it before to Will.

"My wife says she saw that on Jerry Springer," he told me. "I thought she was making it up. I'll be damned. Right here." And then, the kicker. "What ever happened to people being attracted to breasts, dicks, and ass?"

I never heard anything from the sheriff's department but, about a year later, I had the occasion to meet with a deputy in an official capacity on behalf of my job. The deputy was cordial and gave me no hint that anything was up but, after the meeting, my neighbor, who was also a co-worker, saw me come out of the office and ran up, all excited.

"That's one of the guys who searched our apartments!" she said.

O...M...G.

I read a lot of "caught in diapers" stories on the various diaper site forums, and I even have a few of my own. But I've never read a "my diaper closet got searched by deputies" stories, haha.

Holy Bat Piss!!

My other diaper closet story is a little... gross.

My last few months in the lakefront apartment the building began to have a problem.

With bats.

For a while I heard a fluttering in the attic above my bedroom. I assumed birds had gotten in and built a nest. I'd seen bats flying across the water at dusk, eating insects, but I didn't know anything about them. Did you know they live in peoples homes?! I didn't.

One day I woke up at around 2 a.m. and heard a high-pitched squeak.

OMFG, I thought... is there a mouse in here?

I reached over and turned on the lamp, scanning the ground expecting to see a rodent scurry across the carpet. I was absolutely disgusted. I hate mice! But... nothing.

Just as I reached over to turn off the lamp I saw it. About eight feet from me, perched on the curtain... a fucking bat.

I just about pissed my diaper.

I lay very, very still for over an hour. I tried not to move, certain that, if I moved a muscle, it would attack me. Again, I knew nothing about bats. I was petrified!

And, after an hour, it began to occur to me: I'm tired as fuck, and I can't do this all night.

I began to slowly move my feet towards the floor. I saw that bat turn its head, and I froze again. Just as I made a decision to bolt, the bat sensed my intentions. It swooped at me. I exploded out of bed, falling onto the floor and getting carpet burn as I crawled to the door. I slammed the door shut and heard the bat fluttering around. Bump, into the door.

Thank God the door was closed.

I walked downstairs and tried to figure out what I should do. Call 9-1-1? Call the landlord? What do you do in that situation?

And then it hit me: I was dressed in nothing but a diaper. And every stitch of clothing I had was in my bedroom.

I could put a towel around myself and call an exterminator? And then I realized: my wireless phone was also in the bedroom. With the bat.

I sat on the couch all night long, wearing nothing but a diaper, afraid to go back upstairs. I finally came to the conclusion that I had to. I'd left my closet open, all of my clothing inside, and my phone was there. Believe me, it was a tough decision to make, and as I stood with my hand on the door handle, strategizing my escape, I actually found myself glad I was wearing a diaper; it would contain the piss if I got scared and... yea, I'm a pussy.

Long story short: the bat had disappeared, and I was somehow able to get dressed, get my phone, and lock my closet all without being attacked.

Bats are nocturnal, and it must have found a dark place to hide - maybe my diaper closet - for the day.

I called the landlord, who called an exterminator. He called me and told me he was on his way out.

"I'll need to go through every inch of the house, and get into the attic," he told me. "Bats like to hide in dark places."

It occurred to me: I needed to do some un-decorating.

In the two hours it took the exterminator to arrive I removed every trace of toddler from my closet. Everything boxed up and away, it was again a plain old walk-in closet. I was sad, but I knew I'd be able to have some fun re-decorating later. And, truthfully, I was just relived not to have found my furry little friend in there!

The guy showed up around noon. His business card said he was a "bat expert", and he explained that he'd studied bats at Cornell University, among other places. "I love bats," he told me excitedly. "I love everything about bats!"

WTF?

So the guy is looking through every inch of the house. I'm following him. He goes through the closets downstairs, the pantry, and the hall closet upstairs, and finds nothing. The whole time he's sniffing the air and using a flashlight and some sort of listening device.

We made our way into my bedroom and he opened the closet door.

He shined his light up into the crack in the ceiling - one of several entrances to the attic - and the light caused a fluttering.

"Yep, you have bats," he said.

He began sniffing. And then stopped.

"I smell... guano. And urine," he told me.

"What is guano?" I asked.

"Well, that's the scientific term for 'bat shit'," he told me. "It has a very distinctive odor. It's faint, but I can tell it's here. You've heard the term 'bat shit crazy'?"

I had...

"This stuff'll drive you crazy. It's not good for your health," he said.

I was disgusted. I had bats. And bat shit. And bat urine.

"That's disgusting," I told him. "Bat shit and bat piss... I don't think I want to live here anymore."

He told me not to worry; everything would be cleaned up.

"By the way," he said. "Not bat urine. Urine. Human urine."

I stopped and looked at him. Holy fucking shit, this guy was good.

"You're trying to tell me you smell piss... in my closet?"

He nodded. It, too, was faint. But he was a sensory detection expert, he explained. Comes with years of searching homes for bats.

"There's guano, sure. But there's also... good, old-fashioned, human urine."

Fucking Diaper Genie!

Like many of you, I wet and then rely on a Genie to store the soaked disposables until I can throw a bunch of them away.

Usually, the smell of baby powder, diapers, and other baby-related stuff is pretty overpowering - in a very pleasant way. I'd never noticed guano. And if I'd smelled pissy diapers, I hadn't noticed. And here was a Cornell University expert, standing next to me, telling me he'd smelled piss in my closet.

"A faint odor of baby powder, too," he went on. "Someone have a baby?"

I almost laughed.

"Neighbors across the wall do," I told him.

"Ahhh," he said. "Of course. These walls are thin." And, with that, he continued on his way, searching the rest of the building.

I've always wondered if he noticed that, on the other side of the wall, there was no baby; he slept about thirty feet from the barrier between our apartments.

If he did, he didn't let on.

The bat problem was fixed soon after - and I have more funny stories for when you're laying next to me in the crib, heh. I moved soon after that, to a more diaper-friendly house.

And I've rarely used a Diaper Genie since then. These days soaked diapers go straight into the trash.

A lot of people who read this blog can describe the humiliation of being caught wearing a diaper - as can I.

But of the times I've been caught, I don't think any have been as embarassing as the day I stood in front of an empty closet and tried to figure out an explanation for why it reeked of urine.

Dirty Old Men...

[ABYSITTER'S NOTE] The saga of Chris continues this week. I'll be writing about some "challenges" Chris and I did, about an intimate conversation we had, about our second/third/fourth diaper experiences, and about how he robbed me at knifepoint - sort of. And, since he robbed me at knife point - sort of - I'll be saying "FUCK YOU" and posting his real picture in my last entry! Get excited.

To answer a question a few of you have asked: no, I don't paddle everyone I abysit. LOL! Chris was into "fem dom", which is when a female has control over you; he was also into spankings. In fact, he once told me "I get into a lot of freaky shit" and, on our second visit, he brought his own handcuffs. Most of the people who I dropped dough to diaper weren't into the "freaky shit", and they just wore. And I never spank someone who's not into it a little. If you say you don't want a spanking, you don't get one.

Anyway, on to tonight's blog entry... originally posted at RUP:

I was scanning through RUP profiles today when I came across one that made me laugh. The AB had posted a lot of dope stuff about himself, and then a warning: don't message him if you're a dirty old man. Nothing odd about that... a lot of people there post similar sentiments.

But then I read his definition of a "dirty old man": anyone older than twenty-five. LOL!! WTF?

That got me to thinking. I remember when I was 17, and my best friend gave me an issue of Penthouse Forum that contained an article about the Diaper Pail Fraternity (later Diaper Pail Friends, and DPF.com). It talked about how these men from Phoenix or somewhere would molest kids as part of their diaper fetish. One of them ran a "bedwetting clinic" out of his van, and parents dumb enough to trust him with their boys would later find that he was diapering them and performing sexual acts. EWW! That was, sadly, my first introduction to other people into diapers.

So when I discovered the original Aby.com, and then DPF.com, I was wary of anyone too much older than me. I was probably 20, and my inbox would get blown up by messages from guys in their 30s, 40s, 50s, and up. Ick! I'd reply, at first, but after a few really creepy ones I stopped. If you were older than, say, 25, you weren't hearing back from me.

Eventually I was twenty-five, and people who were 25 didn't seem that old anymore. I was also corresponding with people 18, 19, 20, and 21, and while most were friendly, some had the same attitude I had; they were looking to meet people their own age. Then the current version of Aby.com came out - well, when it was a live site lol - and over a few years I watched these same guys turn 22, 23, 24, 25... you get the idea.

When I was 18 you couldn't have paid me to wear a diaper with someone 25 or older. It just wasn't my thing. Today I'm in my early 30s and guys 25 seem pretty dope. It's funny how your overview changes over time.

I'm well aware that there are plenty of guys on this site who are 18, 19, 20+ etc. and looking for older guys. Some want a "big bro", others a "daddy", and, for a variety of reasons, they seek out guys who can fill the paternal void, dole out some discipline, or - well, their reasons are probably as many as they are.

I just thought it was funny that someone 18 admitted thinking that anyone over 25 is a "dirty old man". Growing older is inevitable; if there is any group that is cognizant of age it is us, we seekers of eternal youth through the wearing of diapers, the sucking of pacifiers, and the sleeping in cribs.

I've been involved in the ABDL "scene" for about fifteen years, ad I've watched a lot of young people "grow old" lol. Some now fit into the category of "dirty old men", being in their late 20s. EWW!

In seven years that site, and/or this community, will still be going strong. Remember that "Abysitter" was the first to say it: as much as you try to stop it by putting on diapers and crawling around, you will age over time. You will, eventually, be old, and the new crop of abdl's just discovering the fetish will put warnings in their profiles against you contacting them.

Does anyone else have feelings about this "aging" phenomenon?

Please limit the conversation to those 39 and younger, as anything over 39 is "dirty" and "old" in my book.

(JK! Haha.)

Thugs In Hugz: Part III

Chris stood in the middle of the floor, naked, waiting. All around him on the floor were possessions from his bag. Cigarettes. Cheap Sprint cellphone. Bandana. Yankees cap. No gun.

I watched as Chris's eyes darted from possession to possession. Wallet - check. He seemed to be checking to see if anything was missing. His wallet had contained exactly as much change as he'd received from a dime bag, and not a penny more, so he'd clearly come with nothing; wasn't sure what he was worried about. But it was there. Along with his credit card holder - without any credit cards - and a business card holder with only a probation officer's card.

Chris was trying to be - sophisticated.

His face was beet red - 1/3 from jogging, 1/3 from standing in 20o weather, and 1/3 from humiliation, probably. I ordered him to the floor.

"Sit on your bottom."

He sat.

"I checked your bag," I continued. "Something's missing. If you can guess what it is, you cut the number of times I swat you in half."

"A gun?!" he blurted out.

"A gun," I repeated. "Seems to be..."

He cut me off.

"I don't have a gun," he said. "I was scared. I just made that up, in case you were thinking of trying anything."

I mulled that over for a moment. I had picked Chris up to paddle him, Pamper him, and jerk off. And he was fully aware of that. What the fuck did this guy think I was going to "try"?

"Corner, now," I ordered. He jumped up and walked over to the corner, then leaned against it nonchalantly. I moved my fingers in a turning fashion and he groaned and turned to face the corner.

"Arms at your sides," I directed, and Chris obeyed. "Stand up straight." He did.

I realized that, in all of the excitement of loading Chris up like a pack mule, I'd forgotten to lock the car doors. I told him that I'd be right back and then walked out, walking up the now snow-covered walkway to the driveway and the car. I checked the doors - locked - and turned around to walk back to the cottage. I could see through the window in the front door - Chris, plain as day, bare-bottom, standing in the corner. EEK! NEIGHBORS! I would have to keep Chris on all fours... or turn out the lights.

I trudged back, stomped up the steps, and walked in the door. Chris tried to stay rigid but, after a few seconds, his nervousness got the best of him. He turned around, saw that it was just me, and tried to regain his corner position. Too late. I walked across the room, wound up, and smacked him hard across his rear. I watched him tense up and ball his fists, then unclench them.

"Did someone tell you to turn around?" I asked him.

"No, sir," he replied. "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again, sir."

Chris was pretty good at this...

I let Chris stew as I picked up his belongings, stuffing them back into the duffel. Once the floor was clear I brought out the diaper bag. I opened it and pulled out what I'd need: disposable diapers, both X-Plus and Attends... Johnson & Johnson baby powder... Huggies baby wipes... sippy cup... baby bottle... a couple of Nuk pacifiers... a teething ring... the paddle.

I walked over to the fridge and pulled out some strained peas and a bottle of apple juice. I brought the Gerber and the juice to the table and set them up, then set the diapering supplies next to them. I walked into the bedroom and retrieved the playpen/tent contraption, bringing it out into the living room. I tossed it by Chris's feet and pulled a mat out from under the couch/hide-a-bed, setting it on the floor a foot from the couch. I was almost ready...

"All fours," I ordered. "Come here."

Chris obediently dropped to his hands and knees and attempted to turn around to face me. It was a humorous sight: the corner was tight, and as Chris turned he kept nearly bumping his head into one window or his feet into the bedroom door. Finally he was facing me; he began to crawl across the room and I snapped my fingers and pointed to the floor. He immediately began to tummy-crawl, and I realized Chris was better at this than I thought.

He'd made it half-way across the room when I ordered him to stop. He did, and then scanned the room. His eyes made it to the kitchen table, and fell on it.

"Wow, sir," he said. "You take this diaper thing seriously."

I laughed.

"Sir, may I ask you something?"

I braced myself for what was to come next. Questions behind the reasoning of ABDL? Inquiries into whether pedophilia was involved? A serious question... a wacky question... what did Chris want to ask?

"Go for it," I told him.

"Sir... we just had a two-hour car ride. And we stopped at your boat for like, an hour. And I drank a huge cup of coffee..."

I could see what he was getting at.

"So I was wondering..."

I cut him off.

"You were wondering if I could get you into one of those things quickly?"

He was silent for a moment, clearly thinking of how he should proceed. He wanted to use the toilet - now. His discomfort was clear. And there was no way in hell it was happening.

"I'll try to get you diapered up quick, Chris," I told him.

"Umm... thank you, sir?" he said, not seeming very grateful. I laughed out loud.

"Last chance to change your mind," I told him. He shook his head.

"You already paid for my weed, sir. I can't change my mind now..."

Christopher's momentary integrity almost made me feel guilty about what was going to happen next.

[NOTE: Those of you who are anti-spanking should skip this part. I am fully aware that spanking is not necessarily an effective means of disciplining children. Among two consenting adults, however... anyway, just skip to the next section.]

"You lied about having a gun, Chris," I said. He blushed. "How many swats do you think I should give you for that?"

"I don't know, sir - let me see the paddle first."

I held it up, and Chris winced.

"One, sir? Please, sir?"

I shook my head.

"Six of the best, sir?" he said. I agreed. He laughed nervously.

I walked to the center of the room and stood behind Chris, who instinctively put his head down. He'd been on his tummy, and I ordered him onto his hands and knees. He complied, and I reached down and positioned him how I wanted him: head down, bottom up, feet together.

"Lying's not cool, Chris," I said - and then brought the paddle crashing down on his left asscheek. He shot forward, laying almost on his stomach, and began squeezing his butt - a normal reaction to being swatted with a paddle. I watched as his cheek turned bright red.

"Back up," I told him, and he obeyed.

"Your right cheek's jealous," I said.

"Uh... what, sir?"

I brought the paddle down on his right asscheek, and Chris reacted the same way. This time he brought himself back up without a prompt.

I leaned in and put the wood directly across Chris's behind. He began wagging his tail furiously, as though the breeze he was generating would cool his ass. His whole bottom was red now - more so in the middle - and I could see that Chris was genuinely in pain.

"Tell me about a time someone lied to you and it upset you," I ordered, and then sat down awaiting his response. Chris seemed surprised, but grateful for the break. I watched his face contort as he tried to think of a story. I pictured him dragging it out as long as possible to try to hold the other three swats at bay.

"This girl, Katie, sir. She told me she would write to me every day when I was in jail. We were going out. And she wrote a few times and then stopped."

"Maybe something happened to her?" I offered. I pictured Chris's friend revolving between incarceration and homelessness.

"Something did happen to her, sir" he continued. "His name was Dustin, sir, and I thought we were friends until Jay Jay went in and told me what was going down."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Shitty, sir."

I thought about that for a minute. I was going to try to connect Chris's story with my irritation about him lying about having a gun, but the two stories had almost no connection. I rescued my attempt with one sentence - "Feels shitty when people lie to you, huh?" and then walked back over and took my place behind Chris.

"Yes, sir."

I gave him three more sound swats: left cheek, right cheek, and straight down the middle. His bottom was tomato red now - I wondered if I'd gone too far, and was relieved that I'd have two or three days to allow him to recover.

"How's your bottom feel?" I asked him.

"Feels like it's on fire, sir," he replied - grinning. "One question, sir - am I going to get spanked some more?"

That remained to be seen...

I pointed back to the corner and Chris obediently dropped, tummy-crawled, and stood up, taking his position. I picked up a diaper, wipes and powder, and brought them over to the mat. Then I unfolded the playpen, watching it pop open - you have to see it to understand - and set it in the middle of the room. I lay down on the couch, flipped on the TV with the remote, and found a cartoon channel. I half watched cartoons and half watched Chris's rear end, giving it time to go from red to orange to a bright shade of pink. After nearly thirty minutes I gave Chris the command: c'mere...

Chris dropped, tummied, and made his way to the mat. He approached it cautiously, not sure what he should do. Sit? Lay? Kneel? He seemed scared to do the wrong thing.

I stood up and bent over, grabbing Chris's ankles, and pulled him onto the mat. I turned him onto his back and pulled his feet into the air, nice and high. And then ordered him to remain in that position.

I picked up the baby powder and set it across Chris's feet. Propped precariously in the air, Chris trembled, threating to send the bottle tumbling to the floor. I picked up the paddle and leaned it on Chris's behind, sort of wedging the handle into his asscrack just a bit.

"Don't let that powder bottle fall," I warned.

"I'll try not to, sir," he replied uncertainly, but I watched as he focused on stopping the trembling.

I picked up the diaper and dramatically waved it through the air, watching it go from folded/closed to wide open. Chris's eyes focused on the diaper. I'd chosen an Attend to begin, knowing what kinds of activities Chris would be doing this evening. I dropped it on the floor by his behind, then walked over the the table, grabbing a pacifier and inserting it betwen his lips.

I stood at Chris's feet, then kneeled. Putting my right hand on his feet I slowly pushed them back, until his bottom was raised off the floor a bit. I slid the Pamper under his ass, inching it, then grabbed the powder bottle. Chris seemed relieved.

"Grab your feet, Chris," I told him. He said something that included the word sir and obeyed, and I ordered him to get his bottom in the air. He pulled his feet towards his head, and his bottom was lifted off the ground another inch or two. I leaned in, shoving the diaper up a few more inches, and then took one foot in each hand, forcefully pulling his feet apart. Chris was now laying on his back, diaper under his bottom, with his feet wide apart - totally vulnerable. He seemed nervous, and I chuckled. I dropped the powder onto his stomach, making sure to avoid the penis but coming just close enough to make him wince. Then I sat down, pulled out a wipe, and got to work.

Chris hadn't been diapered since he was in diapers, and it was clear that he was embarassed. The feeling of someone wiping him with a Huggies wipe couldn't have helped much. I started with his ass, digging deep and being very, very thorough. After a good sixty seconds on his asscrack alone I moved outward, wiping his buttocks, and even the inside of his thighs. I pushed his feet to the floor and as he lay, pulled his penis into the air, gently, wiping it - and around it. I pulled down his foreskin and scrubbed everywhere, then wiped his pubic hair so much it was soaked.

"How do you feel?" I asked him as I finished up.

"Squeaky clean, sir?" Chris replied, mumbling through the paci. He began to laugh.

"You sure are," I replied.

I sprinkled powder on Chris's winkie, down his crack, and all over the diaper. I used my right hand to rub it around in some places, and the wiped my hands with a baby wipe before reaching in and pulling Chris's diaper up over his penis. Chris had closed his eyes and seemed to be trying to relax; only the reddening of his face gave away his humiliation.

"Suck in your tummy," I said. Chris didn't really have a tummy, but I like my diapers tight, so I gave the order anyway. He obeyed, and I taped the diaper snugly; nothing - not even air - would be getting in or out of this bad boy...

"Turn over," I ordered. Chris obeyed, and I examined his ass for a moment. This was a rare diaper moment: I'd diapered Chris perfectly, and the diaper hugged his beautiful little bottom perfectly, like a Christmas package wrapped for you at the department store. I admired my handiwork and watched as Chris became familiar with his new diaper, squeezing his buttcheeks a few times and wiggling around a bit.

"Hold still," I directed and Chris obeyed. "The next three days are very important for you," I told him dramatically. "You're going to have the opportunity to earn some extra dough, some prizes, and - if you're really good - a trip to the potty." Chris turned bright red, and I had to laugh. "Otherwise, you'll go home with the amount we agreed on - and a case of diaper rash."

"So I have to - pee - in the diaper?" Chris asked haltingly, seemingly scared to question me. I nodded. "Like... and... umm... the other, too?"

"Like I said," I repeated. "Earn a trip, or the diaper it is."

Chris gulped, then nodded.

"How do I earn it, sir?" he asked.

Glad he asked...

...the "challenges" were about to begin...

TO BE CONTINUED...

YouTube Tuesdays: What It Feels Like...

YouTube Tuesdays: Video #10

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

"What It Feels Like..."

NOTE: By popular request, I'll begin putting my YouTube Tuesday selections up Monday night, so they're available Tuesdays in countries other than the U.S.; folks from UK and Australia have contacted me, and apparently 9 p.m. EST Tuesday = already Wednesday in some places. Sorry!

Disclaimer: The YouTube video below was recently linked from RUPadded. It's adorable as hell, so I have to share it. I love the idea of a representation of what it feels like - to be toddlerized. While this is meant to be humorous, the concept is dope, and the video cute as hell. And the younger brother... O M G!

Thugs In Hugz: Part II

A week or two went by, and Chris and I continued to talk rap, hip hop, and MySpace. Diapers didn't come into the conversation much, but Chris continued to mention his struggle for money.

Me: "Did you hear the new Em track?"

Chris: "You know I can't afford that shit, yo."

I didn't throw diapers into the conversation, and Chris didn't bring them up. He'd expressed interest, but I figured he probably needed to get to a pretty low point before he'd offer his ass for the changing table. That's why I was suprised when he began telling me about how he liked to be spanked - by girls, of course.

"I get into some pretty freaky shit, actually," he told me proudly.

We conversated about turnons, and he threw out some that aren't necessarily diaper-related: spanking, paddling, being tied up, hot wax.

(Hot wax?!)

"So do you ever, like... spank the people you diaper?" he asked me.

I acknowledged that I do, on occasion, and he seemed interested.

"I could probably get into that," he said. "And my mom's birthday's coming up and I have no money, so..."

The offer was on the table. I took it.

Friday night. Chris's city was about 20 minutes from my boat, but I was at the house, more than an hour away. I'd spent an hour or two getting the house ready: diapers stacked, powder out, valuables hidden. I logged in to AIM, sent him a message, and waited; a few seconds later, his response - "can't wait" - (sure, sure lol) - and I was in the car and ready to roll.

I was a little nervous. Chris was a thug, someone who clearly had criminal instincts and, from the conversations we'd had, seemed to have to try hard to keep them at bay. Unlike most of the other Pampz-for-pay experiences, in which I went to peoples homes or hotels - I was having Chris to my house. I hoped that this wouldn't go poorly...

It was dark by the time I rolled into Chris's city. I followed his directions via Mapquest on my Treo - this was before I'd discovered GPS - and found myself in an empty parking lot. A huge, empty parking lot. WTF? I was a little nervous... was I being set up?

I called Chris's home number and his father answered. Weird.

"Chris home?"

Father: "Are you the guy he's supposed to meet?"

"Uh, yea..."

Father: "Yea, he just left our driveway. It's by the baseball stadium, look for him in the parking lot."

That's explains it. Well, the part about the huge, empty parking lot... it was winter, and baseball stadiums would be empty. I looked toward the other end of the lot and could make out something that looked like a stadium. Still, no Chris.

I waited another five minutes and then started up the car, intending to drive away. Had I just driven more than an hour for nothing... to be stood up? No fucking way.

As I turned on the headlights they cut a wide swath across the lot and, as I turned, I saw a figure walking toward me. He had his hood up and a lot of swagger - the markings of a wigger. As he got closer I saw that he had a big bag. How many outfits had this kid packed?! I rolled down the window and looked out at him. He, too, looked nervous.

"Chris?"

"Yea. Chris?" he replied.

"Get in."

Chris sat next to me, his duffel on his lap. I ordered him to put his seatbelt on and he reached for it, trying to squeeze it between his lap and the bag.

"You can put that in the back seat," I told him. He looked hesitant, but he reached back and dropped it.

Silence. Then...

"Don't think I'm weird, but... I've got a gun."

I'd barely begun rolling down the road. I slowed to a stop, pulled over, and looked over at him.

"With me. In my bag."

I gulped and wondered how I should proceed. He continued...

"You don't know who you're going to meet, you've gotta protect yourself."

I shook my head and started to order him out, but he anticipated his eviction and beat me to the punch.

"It's not even loaded. You can hold it if you want."

Apparently he'd decided I warranted his trust.

I directed him to throw the duffel bag into the back of the car, and he picked it up and tossed it over the back seat.

Then he apologized.

"I don't usually carry an unloaded gun," he told me. (I wondered if he meant he didn't usually carry a gun, or if he meant that it was usually loaded). "I just thought I should have protection."

I laughed.

"A condom is protection," I told him. "You shouldn't be carrying a gun, period. I'm assuming you brought your permit..."

He laughed, and I continued to drive. I reached back into the back seat, grabbed a pacificer from the seat-back pocket, and handed it to him.

"Mouth it. And take your hood off."

Chris and I had come to an agreement before I rolled into town: he'd do three days for $______ - I won't even put the amount because it's so low it's embarassing. I'd front him $20 up front for some weed - something he insisted he needed to get through the weekend.

"I'm gonna need to be high for this, yo..."

We cruised around the city, me following his directions, my twenty in his hand. The first two places we stopped at came up empty, and I was beginning to get irritated. I'd driven more than an hour, it was thirty degrees out, snow was in the forecast, and I was getting tired.

The third crackhouse was the charm. Just after I warned Chris that he was dangerously close to going home empty-handed we passed a car and Chris got excited.

"That's Jay, dude! He always has shit!"

I turned around and headed after the car, noting that the white boy driving it had a Jamaican flag on his back bumper. Not very smart for someone who sells weed... lol.

Jay pulled in front of a house and quickly walked inside. Chris jumped out of the car almost before I'd stopped and followed. I sat in the car and waited, taking note of neighbors peering out of their windows from at least three houses. I turned my headlights off and sunk down into my seat. Great, I thought. I'm going to be the guy who's sitting here when the cops raid the place. I wondered what Chris's bag might contain...

About ten minutes later Chris came out and got in the car.

"Sorry it took so long," he said. "He was trying to give me something light. I told him I got a lonnnng weekend ahead of me, I need all I can get!"

Great.

I pulled away and began driving, an began to relax about ten miles later when it became clear we wouldn't be the target of any sting operations. Chris put his seat back, put his hands in his hoodie pockets, and sucked on his pacifier; I drove. We talked about music, he seemed to begin to relax too, and I stole a few sideways glances. He was... cute!

Chris was cute in a ruggish sort of way. Handsome, but a little scary looking. A few scars on his face, a stubbly half-grown moustache, a knocked-out tooth. I'd diapered a lot of pretty-boys, and this was no pretty-boy - but cute nonetheless. It seemed hard to believe that he'd be on the ass-end of a diaper in less than an hour; I pictured him on the other end of a shotgun holding me up, which seemed a lot more realistic.

But his mannerisms - adorable. Chris talked continuously for twenty minutes, touching on everything from "wack-ass emcee's" on MySpace to "niggers who think they run shit" in his city. It was clear that Chris was an angry kid with a chip on his shoulder. I knew from his MySpace page that he, too, was a wack-ass emcee - and the only white boy among a group of black friends. Was this guy trying to fake me out? Make me think he was someone he wasn't?

It soon became clear: Chris was letting who he really was come out.

As we drove toward my marina he began to tell me how much he liked the area we were driving through. "If I had enough money I'd move out here," he told me. "You're so lucky that you get to come stay on a boat here. This place is so... chill. No crime. No gangsters."

I chuckled to myself. The marina was iced over, most boats up on jack stands for the winter. I pictured bringing Chris here in the summertime - the neighbors would have a fit. Gangsta mannerisms and swagger don't work much among the yacht club crowd. Chris would be the most relaxed motherfucker in the marina - while everyone else would be nervous as fuck.

"I'd love it out here in summer," he said.

I'd told Chris I'd show him the boat, so we rolled into the marina - pitch black at nearly 12 a.m. - and I drove up to it. It was covered in shrink wrap, high up on jack stands - not much of a show in mid-winter.

Chris got out and walked around it. He tried to jump up and grab on to pull himself up into the cockpit but couldn't.

"Damn, thought I was in shape," he said. He tried again and managed to grab on - and his sweat pants dropped down to his knees. He dropped back to the ground and pulled them up, quick, seeming embarassed. I chuckled to myself; in an hour or two I'd be seeing everything this kid had, and he was embarassed that I got a glimpse of his boxers? He was in for a surprise...

Chris continued to walk around the boat, and stepped back.

"I'm going to get to come here in summer, right?" he asked. I was taken aback - I figured we were MySpace friends and he was using me for some quick dough. He was thinking summer friends...

"Sure, if you want."

He turned to me and looked at me for a minute. Just as I was beginning to become uncomfortable...

"You must love this," he said. "I bet it's like - a cradle. Just lay in the boat as it rocks back and forth. Damn, I know you gotta love this."

It was almost like he was inside my head, and I nodded in agreement.

"I could get into that," he said. We got into the car and began to drive.

I drove to the other end of the marina and pulled into a paved parking lot facing the slips. Most were empty, but it was windy, wavy, and snow was just beginning to fall - a beautiful, if scary, sight. I'd stopped for a cup of gas station coffee and Chris had picked up Swishers and cigs, and we both sat, listening to a rap CD and looking at the lake - me drinking coffee and Chris smoking a cigarette. It was relaxing and, truthfully, it was nice to have someone else who seemed as calmed by the water as I am.

Back at the gas station I'd allowed Chris to go in and do our shopping for us. I figured if he could get cigarettes he had to be 18 and, while his MySpace said he was older and he seemed as old as 22, I have a strict 18+ policy and wanted to be sure. When he came out with the cigs I had been nearly satisfied, but thought I'd better doublecheck anyway. I'd told him to produce his ID and, after questioning whether I was a cop - some people think cops have to tell you they're a police officer if you ask them, as if lol - he produced what must have been the most ratty-fucked up driver's license I'd ever seen. He was over 18 - check - and the fun was on...

"Yo, Chris - you mind if I smoke a blunt?"

Chris's question pierced the silence and, suddenly, I became much less relaxed. We were the only people in a marina parking lot at 12 a.m., and I'd already seen the local police SUV roll down the lakeside road twice. It was just a matter of time before they rolled through, and the stench of weed would be pretty obvious. I had to tell him no.

He waited a few minutes. Then...

"Could I at least roll one?"

What was this kid, a fiend?

"You're getting to enjoy your coffee," he pointed out, trying to sell me on the just-roll-one idea. I was irritated, but relented. I warned him that the police roll through regularly, and that we might attract attention. Especially with you in my car, I wanted to say - but didn't.

Chris pulled out a baggie of weed and a swisher. He opened the door and pushed all of the tobacco out of the cigar, then closed the door and put the baggie up on the dashboard. I began to glance in my mirrors and he noticed, telling me to relax.

"If the police come up on us just act like you're sleeping, and I'll tell 'em you didn't even know I had it," he said. "They'll probably just smoke some with us and let us go, this town in chill."

Chris unraveled the swisher wrapper on his lap, reached into the baggie, and took a pinch. He tried to spread it out within the wrapper but it the wrapper rolled closed and rolled onto the floor, bits of canabis going everywhere.

"Shit!"

A second attempt went the same, and lead him to ask me for a book.

"To put the wrapper on," he told me. "A book. A map. A notebook, anything."

I had nothing.

And then it hit me. I reached into the seat-back pocket and pulled it out.

"Spread it out, it'll work," I told him, handing him an Abena X-Plus. He took it, looked at it, and looked at me.

"Holy fucking shit, yo - this is gynormous! Who the fuck is this for?!"

I laughed and assured him it was for him. Chris looked incredulous.

"Did you make this?"

I thought about all of the times I'd made diapers. I wished I had this kind of talent. I told him about how they were were made for the geriatric set, incontinence, etc.

"But you like to see wiggers wearing them?"

I told him to roll his weed and be quiet.

The diaper worked...

Forty-five minutes of animated thug convo later and we were rolling into Cottage Road.

My family is blessed to have a lake house on one of the Finger Lakes; I've written about it in past entries and will write about it more in future ones. This weekend it would be all mine, and Chris and I would spend a weekend in diapers here.

I drove down the now snow-covered road. The wind was whipping off the lake and the snow was beginning to pick up; Chris peered out nervously, watching the snow pile up.

"Think we might get stuck?" he asked.

"Nah," I told him, thinking how lucky he'd be if we did get stuck; he'd get to keep his sweatpants and hoodie on for a little longer. He was about to be de-wiggered...

We turned into the parking lot and I gunned the engine to get up the icy crest. The car made it and I turned off the engine and headlights. I put my seat back and looked at Chris.

"You ready for this?"

He'd begun to look nervous again. He shook his head nervously.

"Guess that depends on what 'this' is," he said.

"Guess you'll find out, right?"

I began going through the rules. "Yes, sir. Try it..." Christopher complied. "We don't walk, we crawl..." Chris's look showed that he wanted to question that one, and I continued "...so we don't get a whack with the paddle." He gulped and nodded. "You obey immediately, no matter how crazy the order seems. Questions?"

"Uhhh... no, SIR?"

Good answer.

I stepped out of the car and walked around to Chris's side, opening the door.

"Out."

Chris stepped out and stood by the door. I stared at him, waiting.

"Yes... sir?"

"Good boy," I rewarded him. He rolled his eyes and I looked at him sternly. He stopped.

"Sorry, sir?"

"Good boy." This time, no eye rolling.

I walked around to the back of the car and opened the hatch. There was Chris's gun-containing bag; I picked it up and, astounded by how heavy it was, carried it over to Chris, hanging it around his neck. I walked back to the wagon, taking out my own backpack, two Wal-Mart bags, and a bed-in-a-bag. I returned to Chris and held them out. He took them all, hanging the backpack over his left arm, the Wal-Mart bags over his right, and balancing the bed-in-a-bag between his arms. I couldn't resist; I grabbed another bag from the car - one which, truthfully, could have remained in the car. I walked over and held it out and Chris, exasperated, opened his mouth. The pacifier fell out and I caught in in mid air. He leaned in and mouthed the bag instead. I dropped the paci in the bag.

"C'mon," I told him.

After about a one-minute walk - with much slippage - we walked up onto the front porch. I unlocked the door and opened it, feeling a rush of heat. The temperature was set low for winter, but even at 60 it seemed heavenly compared to the high-20s temperatures we were experiencing outside. I took the bag from Chris's mouth and, one by one, each of the other bags, setting them inside on the floor. The snowflakes were growing bigger, now, and they began to accumulate on the top of Chris's head.

"Strip down to your shoes," I told him.

"Are you... serious?" he asked me incredulously. "It's like zero out here. In case you hadn't noticed. Sir."

Sigh.

"Strip down. To your shoes. Now."

Chris shook his head and began laughing, and I could tell that he was having second thoughts. Still, he took his hoodie off, handing it to me. Then his sweat pants, with Chris slipping on the porch as he tried to pull them over his kicks. He handed them to me, and his wifey and boxers were next. Chris stood, finally, dressed only in sneakers and socks - butt ass naked, shivering in the cold, already red-faced from the temperature and now even redder from embarassment.

"You said you like humiliation, right?"

"Well... um, yes, sir," he said, clearly deciding not to try to include the girl factor into a long, drawn-out explanation.

"Good. And you get into spanking too, right?"

"Yes, sir."

I chuckled wryly, and Chris laughed and started shaking his head.

"It seems to me I have to search a duffel bag," I told him. "If I find a gun in there you're getting the paddle... I don't like guns in my car, Chris."

He gulped.

"And if I don't find one you're getting the paddle anyway - for lying."

He turned even redder.

"Laps around the cottage. Start now."

Chris stood there. He looked at the snow-covered ground, then at his shoes, and then at me.

"Laps. Move your asssssssss..."

Chris shook his head, sighed, and stepped off the porch. He began jogging, his junk flopping, trying not to slip on the snow. I let him run around once and laughed as the neighbor's motion-detector lights turned on and Chris jumped, startled.

"Move your ass, Chris, or I'll send you over to the neighbors to borrow a cup of milk," I warned, knowing full well they were in Florida for the winter. Chris began to run faster. I went into the house and shut the door, sitting down by his bag. I pulled out the contents one by one, going through everything. Every thirty seconds or so Chris would run by the sliding glass door, trying hard not to look in but still glancing out of the corner of his eye. I enjoyed the view but, in truth, I'm not as devious as I seem, and after about five minutes began to feel a little guilty. I got up, walked to the door, and waited for his next pass.

"Come here!"

Chris obeyed immediately, almost falling from turning so fast. He ran up onto the porch and ran in place, apparently afraid to stop.

"Stop."

Chris stopped. He looked past me, at the contents of his bag strewn across the wood floor, and I could tell he was nervous. His eyes were darting from item to item.

"Ready to warm up?" I asked, and he nodded profusely. He was covered with goosebumps, shivering, and his penis was about half its previous size.

"You know you're getting a paddling, right?"

"Yes, sir..."

Chris walked in and walked past his things, standing naked in the middle of the floor waiting for instructions. He seemed relieved by the warmth. I sat back on the couch, began to relax, and enjoyed the view...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Thugs In Hugz: Part I

Dropping dough to diaper thugs has its advantages - and, its dangers. I once got robbed at knifepoint - sort of. Here's the story in a couple of parts. Part I:

I first met Chris on MySpace.

MySpace was fairly new at the time, and it was still filled with real people. The SpamBots and spammers hadn't heard about MySpace yet, so there were no offers for penis enlargement cream in your comments, no warnings that your pictures have been used on another site in your mail. Chances were if you had a friend request, or message, or comment, it was from a real person; and, if you browsed the local area, you'd find real people that you might actually see out at the club.

Today MySpace is known for a place where emerging music artists can get their music out. When I joined in 2004, nobody was using MySpace for music yet. I began amassing an impressive amount of MySpace friends and, along with a few others, used my account for posting bulletins for music artists. I mainly pushed dope-ass white rappers, a genre I feel gets far too little attention. By 2005 I had a more than 200K 'friends', many who would check out my bulletins and get their first taste of the hip hop artists I was 'promoting'.

Chris was a rap fan. He was 18, high school dropout, unemployed, and a male slut - your typical 'wigger' - and he liked the people he heard in my bulletins. Chris would send me message replies to many of them, letting me know what he liked, what he didn't... and letting me know that he had wigger friends in his area who aspired to be rappers. "You should come check them out," he'd tell me. "Maybe if you post for them the right person will hear it and we'll get a deal."

The difference with Chris was, unlike most of my MySpace friends spread across the U.S., Chris lived in a city less than thirty minutes from my boat. During the summers I would go there and spend days - and, sometimes, weeks - at a time, sailing, sleeping, and sexing on the sailboat. I visited Chris's city often, so the idea of actually listening to his hip hop heads was something which might actually happen. That possibility sort of kept our virtual friendship going...

I'd only been talking to Chris for a little while when he posted a blog announcing he would be serving some jail time. "Gone 'til November" was the title, and in it he asked people to write to him and/or send him money for jail commissary. I asked what he'd done, and he told me he'd violated probation and had to "serve a couple of months."

He went in and was gone way past November; spring came and, then, summer. Every once in a while I'd swing by his page, check out some old pictures of him "passing the dutchie" or posing with a gun - a paintball gun, I assumed, although in the streetz one just can't be sure - and check the "last login" date; always the same as the day he went in.

At some point in the summer I got a message from him. He was back...

We started talking on AIM and Chris let me know how easy jail had been - sure, Chris - and how hard "life on the outside" was turning out to be. From the way he was talking you'd think that he'd been incarcerated for a lifetime, not just the better part of a year. Friends had abandoned him, his girlfriend had left him, and he was jobless and having a tough time finding anything.

"Bro, I am broke!" he would tell me on a daily basis.

"I don't even have money for weed!"

I was doing fairly well at the time, but kept that to myself. I'd tell him stuff like life is hard and he'd reply with "But I'm a baller, yo!" Christopher was still close enough to the reality of jail to want to stay on the right side of the law; afraid to sling on the streets, what's a wigger to do to make it through?

I recommended a day-labor place I'd passed on excursions into town. I'd noticed that hot wiggers would always be lined up on the street hoping someone with a job would stop by and scoop them; I figured if their thug asses could get hired, Chris could, too. He told me he'd try it and thanked me for the advice. I didn't hear from him for a few days. The next weekend, he was back on AIM.

I asked him if he'd found anything yet.

"Yezzir!" he told me. "I worked two days this week. I found $40 a day and blisters on the bottoms of my feet."

He went on to explain that, in order to get hired for the day at the labor place, you had to arrive by 5. In the morning. And wait. People would drive up in a truck, and the people who ran the outfit would come out and point to two, three, four guys. "Get in the truck." They'd get a lift to the job site and work their asses off all day. At the end of the day: $40-50. One day Chris picked up trash at a racetrack; another day he shoveled manure - "with no fucking work boots, yo" - at a fair.

"Making money is hard," he complained. "I'm working eight hours for $40."

I'm not sure what possessed me to throw it into the conversation, but I did.

"Damn, I pay that for just a few hours!"

And it was on.

Chris wanted to know what I was talking about. I tried to change the subject, and/or stall, but he persisted. And, after an initial fear of exposing my diaper secret to him - even though a blog on my MySpace alluded to it and I figured he'd seen it - I gave in.

"Pampers for pay, dude."

The AIM chat box went silent and still - for nearly five minutes. Chris remained online, so I knew he hadn't blocked me, but he wasn't responding. I figured I'd just basically said goodbye.

And, after nearly five minutes, his response:

"WTF?"

Eek!

"You don't want to know, Chris..."

I figured I'd just backpedal and then, hopefully, change the subject. We'd gotten to know each other pretty well online, and I didn't want to lose that over my weird freaky fetish. I began to think of alternate explanations... what else could Pampers for Pay mean, I wondered... and he messaged me again:

"WTF?"

I was still thinking when I saw his next message:

"Dude. You pay people. To wear diapers."

I pictured this thugged out wigger getting his crew together in someone's mom's Caprice and rolling out to where I lived to bust a cap in me.

Despite the fact that I'd diapered more than a dozen wiggers I knew that the 'wigger code' is strong, lol. I'd just revealed something about myself which violated that code. Would Chris threaten me, or just block me and leave me alone.

What he typed next surprised me.

"Dude. You pay people. To wear diapers. And you've let me bust my ass shoveling horse poop all week. WTF?"

To Be Continued...