What will they think of next?

It's a pacifier. It's a thermometer. It's a dignity-saving device... used to be if you wanted to take a baby's temperature... eek!

Pampers Come To The NFL!

Just in time for the Super Bowl... Pampers come to the NFL. Watch this awesome commercial starring NFL player Drew Brees performing an on-the-field test of new Pampers Cruisers with Dry Max, a diaper billed as a "high performance" diaper.

In addition, you can go to www.youtube.com/pampers or Pampers Village starting March 15th to register for a free sample of a Dry Max diaper.

YouTube Tues - er, Fridays: Luckiest Boy on YouTube?

It pisses me off. I used to post YouTube videos of diaper scenes every Tuesday. "YouTube Tuesdays", we'd call them.

(Well, okayyyyy... some Tuesdays. I'm the first to admit I put stuff off...)

Then one of my favorite-of-all-time videos got removed. And I heard that someone posted creepy comments on the person's YouTube about our fetish. The video had been of a French boy wearing two baby diapers taped together, sitting in a chair eating various jars of baby food until he puked. It was... so cute. But the guys in the video didn't know anything about diaper fetish until, apparently, we told them.

So, once I found out, I took a break from posting them.

But I've wanted to share this with you for a while. So I ripped it from YouTube and uploaded it here. No danger it will be removed, and no danger anyone will tip off the family of this possible ABDL.

The boy in this video, Ricky, has found an old GoodNite (for girls) that a relative left at the house. His mother, who claims that she took the video to embarrass her son for disobeying her, is all-too-happy to let Ricky walk around the house - and the entire neighborhood - in his diaper. And he looks like he's in heaven.

This might be totally innocent. On the other hand, if Ricky is ABDL... how lucky is this kid?

I know I totally wish I was in his place...

...and if you see the look of shear happiness around on his face when he's standing in front of the television... damn.

You go, Ricky...

...and no, I have no idea why Ricky's brother is duct-taped on the floor. A whole fetish family, perhaps?

Teen Wolf?

A story out of San Antonio, TX about a young woman who lives as a "wolf", complete with a "pack"; she even wears a wolf's tail, which you'll see in the video.

No evidence that she's a babyfur, but interesting all the same.

Click the link:

http://www.wftv.com/video/22364421/index.html

That'll Learn Ya...

Our li'l Pampered pal Dominomotion found a book on the history of his city in a collection of old books where he works. Interesting title? One can picture diaper fetishists of yore thumbing through it in the General Store, in the hopes of...

Best billboard ever?

Best billboard ever? Maybe if they didn't have the order backwards lol...

Growing Up: The Cottage - Part I

Growing up, my family was fortunate enough to have a cottage on a lake in upstate New York. It had been built by my grandfather, by hand, upon his return from World War II, on land he'd acquired for next to nothing. It was on the end of a dirt road and, when he originally purchased the land, its value was considered near-worthless, the idea being that land on paved, maintained roads was in demand and property off-the-beaten-path was not. Decades later the opposite would prove true, and the fact that the cottage, and those around it, was secluded - primo property.

And, for an ABDL, the perfect location for regression sessions.

For that reason, and many others, the cottage - and its proximity to water - would shape everything about my life.

The structure itself was only livable during the warmest summer months; uninsulated and with no heat, save a wood stove, we relied on large windows that could be opened inwardly and latched to the ceiling for cooling on hot summer days; the heat we couldn't force out during the day would keep us warm on cooler nights. (Other nights were sweltering, and nothing about the place would keep you cool, save a midnight dip...)

The cottage was located directly on the lake. My brother and I considered ourselves very lucky; many of the cottages up and down the shore were located high up on a cliff, but my grandfather had built ours before the Department of Environmental Conservation would impose limits on how close you could build from the shoreline, and it was smack-dab on the water. At night you could hear the waves lapping against the railroad ties which made up the breakwall. A cool lake breeze and the sound of lapping waves would become things I would need to have in my life.

The Outhouse

The cottage had primitive plumbing: a pipe drew lakewater in to the sink. Good for washing hands and dishes, the water was undrinkable; big plastic jugs labeled "City Water" were kept in the fridge, a 1950s GE monster too big for the space it had been relegated to.

This meant that there was no bathroom. Baths were taken in the lake; you would strip down to your bathing suit and carry your shampoo and soap in, freezing and pushing seaweed away as you scrubbed. You never really got clean, but it was the cottage, and nobody cared. Plus, the grandparents were just a twenty-minute drive away, and showers could be taken at their home whenever necessary. "Roughing it" was what we called it, and it was fun.

There was no toilet, either. Since the 1940s everyone who had stayed at the cottage, from my grandparents and their friends and relatives to my parents, our friends - even some college kids who rented the cottage in the 1970s and attempted to last the winter before abandoning it for someplace with a heater - everyone had relied on... the outhouse.

The outhouse was a large organ box my grandfather had trucked in and... remodeled... for the occasion. It contained a bench, a hole, a bucket, and a toilet seat. A door knocker engraved "HURRY!" was placed on the outside of the door, and a pipe leading from the bucket to a hole in the tin roof served as a ventilation pipe. The only other ventilation was a small window, six inches by eight inches with wooden slats, which faced the lake. The outhouse itself was halfway up the stairs to the top of the cliff, just far enough to make a trip to it a pain in the ass, but far enough away so that the odor of dookie never wafted through and ruined our lakefront fun.

If you're a regular reader of my blog you know that I was allowed to wear cloth diapers until age four or so - and that my parents eventually took them from me.

At the cottage, diapers also were not allowed. But they were needed. And in their place...

First Memories

I have memories of Little Cwis at age four or five - maybe six, even - being afraid to mount the steps to the outhouse in the middle of the night.

Little Cwis had been stung by bees coming down the stairs once. Well, stung on just one occasion - but by something like five hundred bees. And it had huwt!!

Okay... it was probably just a dozen or so bees. But I remember being terrified for several years later that they would return. The steps from the cliff to the shore were made of railroad ties and, apparently, bees enjoy building nests attached to railroad ties. I'd had a few close calls after the stinging episode occurred, and wanted like hell to avoid another stinging.

During the day I would walk up to the outhouse, reluctantly, to use the toilet. If I just had to pee I'd go for a swim. (Problem solved!) But when it was time to go, to the outhouse it was. I'd creep up slowly, throw myself at the outhouse door and lock it behind me, do my business quick, and whip back down the stairs. Sometimes I'd swear I heard buzzing just outside...

My younger brother hadn't gotten stung. The worst thing that had ever happened to him was a horsefly bite. He'd fallen off of a wall at the pool and hurt himself, but that was it. He was as afraid of horseflies as I was of bees, but there were no horses by the lake, so he was good. I, on the other hand, was a little bitch. So while my brother would coolly saunter up the steps and take his time in the potty I'd make it much faster - much to the amusement of my brother, family, and friends.

At night it was a whole different matter. I'd long since discovered that bees don't go to sleep when people do. And Little Cwis liked to drink water like a little fish. Before dinner... during dinner... after dinner... sip slurp slug...

Full bladder. Fear of bees. So, as you can imagine, the post-bedtime hours could get... tricky.

My first strategy was to avoid pooping from bedtime to sunup. I'd hold it, sometimes uncomfortably, and at first light BAM! up the stairs I'd be.

This worked well, except for the obvious: I'd have to piss about sixty minutes into my bedtime, and there was no holding that...

So I came up with a plan - something my five year-old little mind considered foolproof: I'd piss off the porch, and hope not to be noticed.

I'd wait a few hours until my parents had gone to bed. I'd quietly crawl out of bed, climb down the ladder from my top bunk, sneaking past my brother and out into the living room where my parents slept, sneaking past them as well. I'd walk to the refrigerator, opening it slowly and grabbing a jug of water. I'd oh-so-slowly poor myself a glass, replace the jug in the fridge, and creep out onto the porch. The porch was directly outside a large screened window - my parents sleeping right on the other side - and the screen door was creaky, so I had to be careful. I'd developed a skill for opening that door with a silence a Ninja would envy, but sometimes my parents would be restless anyway, and I knew they were awake.

Little Cwis would lift the glass to his lips and pretend to drink, making a 'glugging' sound for effect. At the same time I'd pull my pajama bottoms down a little, whip out the winkie, and begin to pee. At the same time urine was hitting the ground I'd pretend I'd finished my drink and "pour" the remaining contents out. Once the glass, and my bladder, were empty, I'd walk back inside, put the glass down on the counter, and return to bed. With any luck I was good for the rest of the night...

My pissing plan worked out a few times. One night, after putting the glass down on the counter, I turned to walk into the living room and froze; my mother was sitting up in bed looking at me.

"If you have to go potty so bad maybe you shouldn't be getting so many drinks after bedtime?" she suggested. I probably looked pretty guilty, but I just murmured some excuse and continued on my path to bed. Nothing more was said, so I chalked it up to helpful advice and forgot all about it.

The last time I tried peeing off the porch was a disaster. I'd gotten up, retrieved my water and my glass, and crept out onto the porch. Everything seemed fine; my penis was poking out of my pajamas, and I was a-pissin' and a-pourin', and, almost done, heard it: creaaaaakkkk...

Damn.

Within seconds I was being picked up by my arm. Urine went everywhere, soaking the front of my pajamas, trickling down my feet, and pretty much covering the porch, too. I felt my pajama bottoms being pulled down, and suddenly my bottom felt like it was on fire. WHAM!

"People walk on this porch, you know!"

WHAM!

"Do you think people want to smell urine while they're sitting outside?"

WHAM!

"We eat at that table, Christopher. Do you know how unsanitary that is?"

WHAM!

By the time all was said and one I'd been spanked hard, and was in tears. My wet pajama bottoms were pulled back up and I was dragged back into the cottage by my father on my ear. Ordered to bed, I walked into the bunkroom, humiliated. My brother, of course, had been awaken by the noise. He'd switched on the light - perfect - and quickly noticed that I was soaked with pee.

"Did you wet yourself?" he asked me, quite loudly, and I remember being thoroughly embarrassed, not knowing what to say. I climbed up into bed, laying on my back in an attempt to keep my mattress from touching the urine. I asked my brother to turn off the light, but he refused.

"Mommmmmmm!" he cried out. "I don't want to sleep under Chris if he's just going to wet himself again!"

My father muttered that I wouldn't be doing it again, and my brother switched off the light. I still remember, all these years later, how I pulled the blanket up over my head and began to cry. I remember the smell of piss intensifying under the blanket, and remember crying; most of all I remember thinking that, no matter how much my bottom stung, it was nothing compared to those bees. Still, I knew the jig was up, and I wouldn't be pissing off the porch again. I'd have to start limiting my liquids or something, and as I drifted off to sleep I remember thinking how impossible my situation seemed...

As it happened, my parents would make it easy.

The next day was supposed to have been a family outing day. We were going to go meet up with family friends at their cottage and spend the day on the water.

But we didn't.

My brother and my father went. And, to hear my brother tell it, they had a great time. Motorboating, waterskiing, and a huge-ass picnic, followed by a movie. A full day of fun on the water.

My mother and I had other plans.

As I watched my brother pack up all of our fun stuff I remember being made to wait at the table. Once he and my father had gone I was made to pull the sheets off of my bed, and put my stinking jammies into the pile of laundry. I lugged it up to the car by myself, loading it into the back seat. I was only five or six, and it was a lot of laundry, something I'm sure was supposed to add to the punishment factor.

Nothing was worse, though, than the ride to the laundromat. My pajamas and sheets stunk, and within minutes the whole car smelled like dried piss. We all know what that smells like; it's a hard smell to hide. My mother said nothing, and I was silent as well, making a twenty-minute drive seem like an eternity. As we walked into the laundry mat I was sure that everyone else could smell my pissy sheets, too. I half-waited for my mother to announce why we were there. She didn't, of course, but I remember assuming that everyone there could tell. I quietly sat next to my mother while my laundry went through the wash cycle. Half-way through it occurred to me that my parents and my brother had also had dirty clothes which could use washing. I was a little kid, but I remember realizing that the fact that we'd made this trip just for my wet stuff was supposed to be part of the punishment.

Other little kids were playing with the lame-ass toys in the laundromat. I wanted to play too, but was afraid; I didn't want to be redirected in front of other kids. My instincts were proven right as I picked up a puzzle book and began to open it; my mother took it out of my hands and placed it back on the table on the other side of her. She told me to think about my behavior, and being less lazy, before I started to play with puzzle books.\

Lazy?? My parents seemed to have no idea why I was unwilling to go to the outhouse at night. And, for whatever reason, I wasn't capable of communicating it...

After my laundry was washed and folded we got back into the car and went to the cottage our friends had rented. I remember being relieved, thinking that the punishment was over.

Not so fast...

We walked in and my mother immediately pointed to a chair, snapping her fingers. I planted my ass in it and she walked through the house and onto the porch, taking a seat with her friends. How long she sat out there I don't remember, but I sat in the little chair by the door, afraid to get out of it, for what seemed like hours. All around me I could hear the sounds of fun, including my brother's joyous shrieks as he steered the motorboat, or got up on waterskis, or did whatever fun thing I could hear him doing. After a while I really had to pee! I tried calling out for my mother, but she either couldn't hear me or was pretending not to.

Midway into my mother's visit my brother, and our friends, finally made it into the house. They came running through the living room and stopped short when they saw me sitting by the door.

"Aren't you going to come out in the boat?" my brother asked, surprised. I shook my head.

"I gotta stay in this chair," I confessed, feeling absolutely humiliated.

"Until when?"

"Dunno."

My brother looked at our friends, and they looked at him. I remember one of them shrugging. Then they all continued through back outside, and I remained sitting. I was beginning to grow irritable now; I really had to go potty, and I'd been sitting in the chair for a long time. I started to wonder if my mother had really meant for me to stay there the whole time. Maybe she'd just forgotten about me...

A little while later my brother and our friends tumbled back into the room. I motioned for him to come over and he did.

"Did you tell anyone?" I asked him in a whisper.

"Tell anyone what, that you wet the bed?" he said, fairly loudly. I blushed. I wanted to give him a shove but was was standing just a little out of reach of the chair, and I knew better than to get up off of it.

"I didn't wet the bed," I countered, growing angry. I stopped, knowing trying to explain what had happened would be fruitless in front of our friends. "Can you tell Mom I have to go?"

He nodded and made his way onto the porch. I heard him conferring with my mother. Our friends both stood next to each other looking at me. I glared at them; we were all close friends, but they were having fun without me and I was feeling resentful. They could tell.

"So, how come you went to the bathroom right where we all sit and eat and stuff?" the older one, Jonathan, asked.

"I didn't!" I argued. "Is that what Jeff tried telling you?" I was angry now; my brother had sold me out?

"That's what your father told our father" the younger one, Ronnie, countered. "He said you went everywheeeere!"

"That's not true!" I countered, raising my voice. In fact it was true, but if my father hadn't grabbed me and spanked me mid-stream I wouldn't have pissed all over the porch.

"So if it isn't true, how come you're not allowed to go boating and stuff today? Why are you sitting in the same chair all this time?" Jonathan asked. The smug look on his face told me that he had me beat. I mumbled a 'fuck you' under my breath. I had no answer for that.

"Surprised you're sitting at all, from what your Dad told your Dad," Ronnie sneered. I could tell they were both angry with me. I'd dared to urinate in a common area, and my father and theirs had played it up as a warning to any other child who'd dare consider doing the same.

"We're leaving soon anyway," I said, half-hopefully. I wondered where my brother was.

"We know," Ronnie replied. "My Mom said you're just here because you need to be in diapers." They walked out onto the porch, leaving me to rot in my chair, and I saw my mother leaning over in her chair, looking in at me, sort of half-glaring. I was angry that I'd allowed people to make me angry and raise my voice; I was already in enough trouble. At the time diapers didn't have the same meaning to me that they do now; I'm sure that I recognized an innate, instinctual desire to be put into diapers; at the same time, a taunt from friends that I needed to be put back into diapers? That would have been embarrassing and anger-inspiring. I wouldn't have taken it seriously...

My brother never returned, but my father returned within a matter of minutes. He ordered me into the car and I walked gingerly, feeling like I was about to explode but afraid to ask to be allowed to go. We made the trip back to the cottage, my bladder bruised by every bump and dip in the dirt road. My laundry slung over my shoulder, my father and I made our way down the railroad tie steps. He must have noticed that I was going much slower than usual, still wary of bees but feeling as though I might wet my pants at any moment. He took my laundry at the door to the outhouse, pointing to the door and opening it for me.

"Go potty. Now."

I went and then followed him down to the cottage. He took me into the bedroom and I stood by, silently, while he made up my bed. He finished and directed me to get into bed. It was around three in the afternoon, and I remember wondering if this was a nap as punishment, or if I was going to bed for the rest of the day. I began to climb the ladder up into my bunk and he put his hands around my waist, pulling me off the ladder and pointing to the bottom bunk.

"You sleep down here, now," he told me.

I had to argue this one. I was the older brother, and had always been allowed to sleep in the top bunk. My brother had always wanted to, and had tried to beg, making deals with me, and even my parents, to get the top bunk. From it you had a vantage point of everything around you: you could peer over the wall into the kitchen, see through a slatted wall into the living room (and onto the adults), see out a window on the side where the neighbors congregated next door, and even see out a window up to the stairs and the outhouse. From the bottom bunk you could see nothing; out the window onto the sky above the neighbors, and four walls. That's it. I loved my top bunk.

My arguments went nowhere. My father let me know that, as long as I wasn't going to get up at night to go to the bathroom and my brother was, he would be allowed to sleep in the top bunk. Bedwetters don't get top bunk, he told me. I was too scared to point out that neither of us were technically bedwetters...

I lay red-faced and furious in the bottom bunk, realizing that my father had made up my brother's bed for him, with my fresh clean sheets, and left me to lay in my brother's old, unwashed bedding. Even at six I was able to spot injustice, and this was it! When my mother and brother returned I was still laying in bed, and my brother made sure to c'mon in and climb up into "his" bed, tossing and turning and breaking it in. He lay there for twenty minutes or so and then climbed back down and mouthed the words "thanks" before leaving - something his lucky ass had the freedom to do. I lay in bed for a while longer until my father came in and told me to get up. He walked me up to the outhouse and told me to go. I did, and we returned to the porch, where my mother had readied a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. She handed me the sponge - a huge, car-washing type sponge - and I didn't need to be told what to do; I got down on my hands and knees and began scrubbing the porch, the railing, the side of the cottage - anywhere urine had splashed the night before.

At dinner time my family made their way out to the picnic table, and were joined by a family from a few houses down the dirt road. I'd watched salt potatoes being cooked, and foods being placed on the table, as I'd scrubbed. Once everyone was at the picnic table my father told me to take my gloves off and wash my hands. I did and, once I was done, made my way out to the table for dinner. I noticed immediately that there were seven places set at the table, and seven people sitting at it. I walked up to my father, confused, and cocked my head, waiting to see where I was supposed to sit.

"Christopher has something he'd like to say to everyone," my father announced, and all seven faces turned to look at me. I stood, frozen, not sure what to say. My father reached out and put his hand on the small of my back, pushing me closer to the table. Everyone waited.

"I'm... sorry..." I stammered.

Silence.

"For... the way... I behaved."

Silence.

"Last night."

Silence.

"I mean... I... knew it was wrong. But.... I... still did it..."

Silence.

C'mon, Dad... am I really supposed to announce that I peed where everyone is sitting down to eat?

"And I swear to all of you, I will never do it again..."

My father got up from his seat and picked me up, carrying me into the kitchen and plopping me down at the kitchen chair. In front of me sat a plate of food: one pork chop, a few salt potatoes, some corn, and a muffin. In my haste to get out to the table to eat I hand't even noticed this when I was washing my hands.

"Eat, and put your head down when you're finished."

I began to eat and was finished in about two minutes. Everyone else sat out by the lake, eating plates and plates of food; I sat inside, still hungry, and most certainly thirsty. My brother came in and retrieved something from the fridge: a 2-Liter of Tab. As he passed me I called out, asking him to pour me a glass.

"Hafta check with Mom and Dad," he said. I begged him to return and let me know either way. A moment later he was back. "No. Dad says it's too late for you to have anything to drink." I could picture my father making this pronouncement in front of our friends, and my face grew red. This had been, by far, the worse day of my life.

I sat on my bottom, for the second time in the same day, yearning to get up off my chair. I toyed with the idea of sneaking over to the fridge to get something to drink, but knew that my rear couldn't take more of last night, and decided to deal with it. Once everyone had finished dinner my father returned, ordering me up to the outhouse. I walked up slowly and walked in, and he closed the door behind me.

"Potty and poopy," he ordered. "It's bedtime." I glanced out the window and saw my mother, brother, and our friends all sitting at the table, less than twenty feet away. I could hear everything they were saying, and they'd undoubtedly heard my father. Embarrassing?

I finished up and exited, following him back down the stairs.

"Say good night," he told me, and I walked over to the table and obeyed. Everyone said good night, and I could see that my sometimes-playmates were looking at me with pity. One came over and gave me a hug, and my mother got up and followed me into the cottage.

"Get undressed," she told me when we were in the living room. I looked around for my pajamas, but they weren't laid out; my father had made my bed but I wasn't sure what he'd done with them.

"No pajamas..."

"Get undressed," my mother repeated. She held up a pair of underpants, and I complied, stripping and holding my hands over my penis, self-conscious. (No six year-old wants to be naked in front of his parents).

My mother lifted my right foot and slid the underpants over them, then put my foot onto the ground and did the same with the left. She slid the garment up into place, and I felt it snug against my rear: the thickest pair of underpants I had ever seen. Unlike the briefs my brother and I were accustomed to these were thick, providing quite a bit of padding against my behind.

"These aren't regular underwear," I declared.

"No, they're not. They're trainers," my mother replied.

"Trainers?"

"Training pants. For boys who are being potty-trained."

My mother explained how the underpants were much thicker than normal so that they could serve as a sort-of diapers. I remember being thoroughly humiliated, yet resigned; just when I'd though my day couldn't get worse here came my mother with diaper-underpants. She retrieved a pair of translucent vinyl pants and slid them up until they covered my trainers, then took my hand and walked me into the bunkroom, practically placing me on my bed.

"Where did we even get these?" I asked, thinking back to the cloth diapers hidden at home.

"From Jonathan and Ronald's mother," my mother said. "They wore them while they were being toilet trained. I told Mrs. Jacoby what you'd done, and she suggested these might work for you."

My mother lifted up my covers and I crawled in, wishing I had pajamas or an undershirt but afraid to ask for one. She tucked me in and turned out the light.

"If you have to go potty you can go in your trainers," she told me as she opened the door to walk out. "Or, if you want to use the outhouse like the rest of us, you may. But do not get out of this bed without waking one of us, and do not walked out that door without one of us with you to take you up to the toilet."

"What if both you and Dad won't wake up?" I asked, the possibilities running through my mind.

"Then your brother can take you," she replied. It seemed like she'd thought of all of my potential arguments, and I cringed at the idea of asking my younger brother to escort my training pants-clad ass to the bathroom; I'd never do it. "But whatever you do, do not go out onto that porch without one of us, or your bottom will be redder than your face was at the dinner table tonight."

I'd lost count at the number of times I'd been embarrassed today. I lay in bed, awake for several hours, listening to my brother and our neighbors swimming, making a fire, roasting marshmallows, all while I served my punishment. My brother came in to the bedroom on several occasions, seeming to get nothing, undoubtedly to rub in the fact that he was still up and having fun while I was in bed. Just as I was beginning to drift off to sleep he came in, flipping on the light and climbing up into the top bunk. He lay awake for a long while, reading, and in the next room I heard my parents doing the same. I'd begun to have to use the bathroom, was would be damned if I'd walk out from under my covers in just a diaper in view of my brother; after a while I found myself soaking my trainer. Hey, Mom had said I could...

Still, while Little Cwis today would find the idea of laying in a soaked diaper exciting, the Little Cwis then did not. I was utterly humiliated and ashamed, and wanted to kick my brother off of my bed from underneath; he'd had fun all day while I'd suffered, he'd gotten the much-coveted top bunk, and now he had forced me to pee myself. GRRRR!!!

Just as I drifted off to sleep I heard it: Jamie peeking at my parents through the slatted wall to let them know that he was "enjoying the view" and hoped to stay in the top bunk for a while.

"How long do I get it?" he asked.

"Depends on how soon your brother learns to go in the toilet," my father told him.

"From the smell in here, he hasn't learned yet..."

OMG.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

The next day I wouldn't be done with trainers. Or regular, parent-escorted trips to the outhouse to go potty. In fact, for the rest of a long weekend I'd be in training pants - under clothing and pajamas, fortunately - and being forced to make the long walk up the stairs on an almost-ridiculous basis.

The training pants wouldn't be worn again. But they'd be present every weekend for the rest of the summer.

And I wouldn't get my beloved top bunk back until the following year.

I would never pee off the porch again.

Until high school.

To Be Continued...

Coming up: I sneak diapers at the cottage as a pre-teen,

and get caught in diapers at the cottage as a high school student...

NOTE: Special thanks to Sal Saligia for the use of his pictures for this and upcoming blog entries.

The person in these pictures obviously isn't me at age six, and isn't me now.

Link to Sal's online page coming soon...

ABDL Goes Mainstream?

Have you caught the Burger King's first commercial of the new decade? It stars stand-up Tom Konkle in the role of a life-time: a big baby.

Commercials are developed by public relations agencies. They involve collaboration between a number of different teammates, and approval at a number of different levels, from the creative department to the client. It's hard to believe that BK would put out something so obviously AB-oriented - initial buzz on the web is "weird" and "offensive", lol - but this is the same ad agency which came out with the offensive "Baby Got Back"/Spongebob Squarepants ad. Maybe the goal is to offend people?

My question is... who in our community works for BK's ad agency?

I don't want to out anyone. The commercial is cute, and it made me laugh. Nice job. And if it in any way has a side-effect of sparking conversation among our friends and loved ones, or making adults regressing seem any more normal or accepted, way to go...

Case Study: Pampers

I stumbled upon a public relations agency's case study for a Pampers advertising campaign today and thought you might find it interesting. Imagine being the person who's responsibility it is to spread the word about Pampers. Dream job?

Case Study: Pampers Golden Sleep, China
 
Challenge

In 2007, Procter & Gamble's first brief to Shunya International, Porter Novelli's partner agency in China, was to devise and implement an integrated campaign to build "sleep" into Pampers' brand equity, and to boost sales and market share by educating expectant and new mothers about the benefits of longer uninterrupted sleep to their babies' cognitive development.

Data

Pampers had commissioned independent U.S. and Chinese expert clinical research which showed Pampers' competitive superiority in ensuring longer uninterrupted sleep for babies, called 'golden sleep' in China; these new results were available for use in the campaign. Initial research conducted by the agency into young mothers' online habits showed that the majority of Pampers' target market were regular Web users for information, and liked sharing baby hints and tips with their friends.

Insight

The agency's insights process identified that in the often-bewildering life of new mothers, the most profound moment to think about the development of their child is when they are looking at their sleeping baby. This insight led to the development of the core creative platform-to encourage new mothers to photograph their sleeping babies, and upload the pictures to Pampers' Chinese website.

Approach

The campaign's hook was that the sleeping baby photos would be made into a giant photomontage, and the final compelling attraction was a campaign to break the Guinness World Record for the largest photomontage in the world.

The campaign was planned as a combination of three key elements:

Offline media and experiential activities including mass carnivals and in-store campaigns in China's Tier 1 cities
Online recruitment and viral programs including the launch of a Sleep Tracker, allowing parents to monitor their babies' sleeping patterns.
A professional clinical and medical education and endorsement campaign, including an educational documentary shot and made by the agency in the U.S. and China.
Additional viral activities were added halfway through the program when the World Record target was broken by a German company, leaving the Pampers campaign with a new target-to upload more than 80,000 photos!

Success

200,000 baby photos were collected, smashing the Guinness World Record, with 109,000 being used to create a photomontage covering 660 square meters, unveiled in one of Pampers' key retail partners' stores in Shanghai. As a result of the campaign, Pampers' sales volumes grew by 54 percent compared to the previous year, and the brand's market share returned to growth. The campaign attracted more than 100,000 new members to Pampers' Mums Club, increasing the Club's penetration of China's online mothers from 26 percent to 43 percent. P&G has recognized the campaign as setting new global standards for effective integrated communications, and Porter Novelli's agency partner was recognized as 'most creative interactive agency' in the 2008 Market Forum awards organized by China's Marketing and Sales magazine.

That's Just Wrong...

Stopped in to get a fresh cut and had to take a piss. What if I'd just stopped in for a change? Can you see me sitting in the stylist's chair, a big soaked wet Pamper in my lap? Seems like kind of a shitty rule to me... diaper discrimination?

Thugs in Hugz: Part IX - The End

Beep beep beep beep beep. My phone alarm was going off, and I reached over and picked the Treo up from the nightstand, flipping it off before I realized it wasn't my phone beeping. I rolled to the edge of the bed and looked down at Chris, who looked up at me with a surprised expression on his face. I saw his cell phone sticking out from underneath him; it was obvious that he'd been playing with it and tried to hide it when the beeping began. Ordinarily he'd been in for a swat, but I had to be at work in a few hours, and I'd promised to drive Christopher to a city two hours away for a hook-up with some party line whore - whoops, I mean, his girlfriend.

"Sorry, sir," Chris said sheepishly, and I gave him a stern look. He looked genuinely ashamed, but in the days he'd spent in diapers he'd become pretty good at playing the part, so who knew. I reached down and picked up his phone, switching it off and looking at the time.

"Damn, dude... we're running late..."

Chris immediately volunteered to shower first, and I agreed. He'd been laying in nothing but a diaper on a blow-up mattress on the floor, and he looked cold. He jumped up and whooshed into the bathroom, leaving the sliding door open and jumping directly into the shower. I could see his silhouette through the glass door as he pulled his X-Plus down and off and balled it up. He tossed it over the shower door, landing it in the wastebasket with ease.

I had expected a thump and, surprised when there was none, walked into the bathroom and looked down into the can. The diaper was... dry. I'd fed the kid three baby bottles the night before, one warm milk and two water. He'd been drinking pretty heavily through the evening before, as well, and I hadn't given him any potty trips. I'd fully expected his diaper to be hanging off his ass by morning, and hadn't even thought of it. Had he snuck a trip while I slept??

Sniff, sniff.

I stood up and, just as I did, noticed the unmistakable odor: piss. I turned around and looked into the shower. There is was, plain as day: Chris, ass-end facing me, leaning against the shower with both of his hands above his head - peeing. WTF! It continued for more than thirty seconds before I turned around and walked out.

Chris must have been holding it all night...

Chris's shower lasted a few minutes, and then it was my turn. Chris stepped out, looking around for a towel. I'd removed it from the rack and, as Chris stood drip-drying, I snapped my fingers and pointed to the corner. He quickly walked into it, nose-to-wall, and I undressed and got in the shower, making sure to rinse it throughly before stepping in. A few minutes later I was done, and I stepped out, grabbing a fresh towel from the sink and drying off.

"Oh... you get a towel, sir?" Chris complained. I whirled the towel into a rat tail and gave him a nice whip in the ass, and he jumped, half-turning to face me. "No towel whips, sir!" I chuckled and walked over to him, giving him a pat on the bottom and draping the towel over his shoulders. Chris stood still as I rubbed it on his shoulders, back, and down to his feet. I turned him around and towel dried his chest, tummy, and legs, then flopped the towel over his head, working it into his scalp. A minute or two later he was dry, and it was time to go.

"Time to get dressed," I told him. He turned and began to walk toward his clothes, and I ordered him to stop. He turned to face me. I snapped my fingers and pointed to the floor.

"Crawling, sir?" he asked, seeming annoyed. "I figured since we were all done..."

"Who says we're done?"

"I thought since I was going home and we were getting dressed I'd probably be able to walk."

I shook my head, and Chris obediently dropped to his hands and knees, crawling across the floor toward the corner containing all of his possessions. He grabbed his kicks, socks, and jockeys, sliding along on his bottom toward the sliding glass door and leading up against it. He put his socks on one by one and then picked up his drawers, reaching down toward his feet.

"Hold up," I said. Chris looked up at me; I was standing over him with my hands outstretched. He obediently, if reluctantly, handed me his drawers. I walked into the kitchen, flipped the top of the trash receptacle, and dropped Chris's underpants in.

"Um, sir?"

I turned to Chris and waited.

"Sir... that was my... only pair."

I put my finger to my lips. Shhhhh. I walked into the bedroom and grabbed the diaper bag, pulling a medium Attend and a bottle of baby powder from it. I turned to return to the living room but decided to stop and make the bed. Chris waited patiently, butt naked, while I got everything nice and neat. I picked the diaper and powder back up and walked into the living room, and he began to shake his head.

"Sir... I'm going to chill with a girl. I was thinking... my big kid underwear might... impress her more?"

"It's a two hour trip," I told him. "Lie down."

Chris groaned, but complied. I lifted his feet and dropped the diaper under his rear in one fluid motion. Chris was powdered and diapered within a minute. I walked across to the corner and grabbed his jeans and T, tossing them to him. He got dressed, struggling to keep his jeans over the slipperiness of his diaper, finally cinching his belt another notch.

"Does this make my ass look fat?" Chris deadpanned. I laughed, and he interrupted me. "No, seriously... can you tell I'm wearing it?"

"I can," I began, and Chris interrupted me.

"Sir, you probably have eagle-sharp vision for diapers three miles away. I mean, can normal people tell, do you think?"

"Normal?"

"You know what I mean, sir..."

I told Chris most people probably wouldn't be able to, and he started laughing.

"Sir... just... text me twenty minutes after you drop me off and remind me not to forget to change before I get undressed in front of my girl."

Agreed.

It had snowed overnight, and several feet of big, fluffy snow covered the ground. The sun was shining and everything glistened. The roads were still covered in some places, and black ice was sure to be an issue.

Chris could sense that I was nervous. As we drove he put his hand on my shoulder, rubbing it.

"You're a pretty good driver, sir," he told me. "You've driven me in a snow storm, and in the middle of the night on country roads, and we haven't hit a deer or snowbank yet. Keep it up, sir..."

We'd driven twenty miles to wear one country highway crosses another. As a college student I'd once made an emergency diaper change at this corner; I'd chosen it because it was rural and pitch black. In the years since a gas station, McDonald's, and pizza shop had been put in. We pulled into McDonalds for some coffee - as much for its warm-up value as for the wake-up factor for the long drive ahead.

"I'll take a large coffee with cream and sugar, and a medium with milk and Equal," I told the drive-thru voice. As I pulled around to the window Chris rolled his eyes.

"Only you get a large?"

I laughed and shook my head.

"The large is for you," I told him. "This is a two-hour trip on good roads... probably gonna take us three hours... are you crazy? What do I look like, drinkin' a large coffee with no bathrooms between here and two hours from here?"

"Oh, so... it's okay for me to have to pee - " Chris began. I reached over and patted his crotch, and Chris appeared to suddenly remember that he was still in a diaper. "Sir... I hoooope I don't show up to meet this girl in anything but a dry diaper..."

"Remember how you held it all night long? Before you pissed all over my shower?" I asked. Chris blushed and started to argue, then stopped and nodded meekly. "Good luck," I told him. He rolled his eyes and, as the clerk took my credit card, shouted out that I'd made a mistake.

"We wanted a medium and a small!"

Too late...

The roads were snowy and icy. In some areas they'd already been plowed, but in others they hadn't, and I was forced to drive twenty miles an hour in some places. I'd long since finished my coffee, and Chris his; soon we were both cold, wishing for a second cup.

Chris had become more talkative - almost hyper. I wondered if it was the coffee, the excitement of meeting someone new, or a combination of the two. I listened and Chris told me about much of his life, from the time he wet his pants in fifth grade to his reasons for dropping out of school - and how he wanted to go back.

"I wish I'd known you when I was younger," Chris confided.

"I'd probably be in jail," I joked, and Chris laughed.

"Not for the diapers part, sir," he told me. "Just... being able to do stuff."

More guilt... I was taking Chris away to diaper and spank him, and he was enjoying the road trip experience.

"This summer we'll do shit," I told him.

"Sailing... right?" Chris asked hopefully. I nodded, and he beamed. "I think I'll make a good sailor," he said. "I was gonna join the Navy, but..." he trailed off.

"Felony record?" I guessed.

"Yes, sir."

We were silent for a little while, me driving and Chris contemplating, and occasionally playing with his phone. Chris began mumbling something after a while, and his mumbling soon turned into a sort of song. Within a few minutes I realized he was rapping.

Met this dude on MySpace

Said YO! Come back to my place

I was broke and starving

Took him up on his offer with haste!

My first time at a lake house

Was already half-soused

Dude couldn't even put a damper on it

When he told me to put a Pamper on it

"Are you serious?" I asked him, and he laughed and shushed me.

He told me he got somethin for thugs

He told me he believes in 'Hugs, not drugs'

You think he coulda told me maybe

The Hugs are the ones you put on a baby?

(It sounded better while he was beat boxing it, lol).

To most people I'm such a 'wigger'

Look at me now and go figure

I'm wearing a baby diaper

Only a little bit bigger...

"Your rap career is destined to be on MySpace only," I warned Chris and he laughed, hitting me with a few more bars.

"Bet you never had one of your thugs throw down a rap for you, sir" he told me. I had to laugh; I hadn't...

We were getting closer to our destination, and now it was Chris's turn to be nervous.

"I hope that I don't get set up, sir," he confided. "I've never met this girl. I only talked to her on the internet. When she invited me to spend the weekend..."

"You're staying all weekend?" I interrupted. Chris nodded.

"I just hope that she's not a drunken whore, sir," Chris told me. "I sometimes have a problem when girls wanna talk shit to me. Like... an anger problem." Chris stressed the word anger as though it was hard to believe, like I might be surprised. I almost chuckled, but I could see how serious Chris was.

"Just ask her not to drink," I suggested. Chris rolled his eyes.

"I'm staying at her place, with her family," he told me. "So she can pretty much do... whatever."

This sounded like a pretty poor idea.

"I have to say... I think this might be a mistake," I warned him. "I mean... a whole weekend... are you sure?"

Chris shrugged his shoulders, and then asked something that surprised me.

"If it doesn't go well... can I come back and spend the weekend with you?" He must have seen the look of apprehension on my face because he almost immediately threw in the offer to spend it in diapers. "And besides, sir... might be good practice for this summer. The more we get to know each other now, the better off we'll be this summer... 'cause you know we're gonna be doing some chilling..."

I agreed, tentatively, but assured Chris I thought he'd be fine.

"It'd be funny if she's setting me up, huh, sir?" He asked me. "I mean, if they're just having me come all the way out here so that they can rob me. Take my kicks and my phone and shit..."

"Think they'll take the diaper or let you keep it?" I asked, and Chris laughed.

"Forgot I was wearing that, sir... man, hope they don't leave me standing in the snow in just that... snow plow'll see pasty white skin and a diapered ass and drive right over me!"

We both laughed. Within a few minutes we were waiting in a parking lot, and after a few more Chris's new friend had arrived. She looked gangsta but not too trashy.

"Definitely not the robbing type," I told him. He laughed.

"Hope not, sir..."

The girl got out of the car she was riding in and walked over to mine. Chris rolled down the window and introduced himself. She started to open his door, presumably to help him get his stuff out of the car, but he stopped her.

"And I want you to meet my friend Chris," he told her. "This man could've left my ass on the side of the road with my thumb sticking out, but he didn't. He drove me all the way here... so I could see you..."

Chris's friend was polite, but seemed less than impressed. Chris looked at me and rolled his eyes, the leaned over and, again to my surprise, gave me a hug.

I was driving away about ten minutes later when I heard it.

Beep beep. Beep beep.

I picked up my phone and looked at the screen.

Look in the visor.

I pulled my visor down; nothing. I pulled the passenger seat visor down and a crisp $20 fluttered out.

A few minutes later, another text.

It's for driving me all that way, SIR. But don't forget to fill your tank in case you have to come rescue me!

I texted a thank you back - and the requested reminder.

Don't forget: diaper.

Chris's last text: OMFG thank you thank you thank you!

I drove away wondering if Chris had managed to remain dry...

Chris and I had talked about doing things over the summer, but they never materialized. I'd found a hot gay model who was willing to wear for $20 a pop, and was even toying with the idea of posing for pictures. (He didn't). He lived within walking distance of my house and spent every waking hour on MySpace; any time I wanted to diaper a hottie he was ready to walk down, and willing to stay as long as necessary. I missed Chris's thugginess - and the spankings - but it was so easy to diaper a neighbor, as opposed to driving over an hour to pick up and Pamper a thug...

Still, Chris and I had become friends. He'd rapped about diapers for me. I'd intended to spend some time with him. My grandmother had died about a month after my last session with Chris, and life had gotten kind of crazy. Summer was half-way over before I realized I'd never called him and, once I did, we made some tentative plans, but nothing panned out.

In September 2006 I made the decision to move south. Chris and I hadn't talked for a few months, but in October I put up an AIM status message: MOVING SOUTH, LEAVE MONDAY, WHO'S DOWN FOR SOME CHILLAGE. Chris saw it and replied:

"Me, sir."

Awwww.

I talked to Chris about an overnight session the following weekend. We agreed on a date and time but, when the weekend came around, Chris AIM'd me to cancel. A few days later the same; this time it was my turn to cancel. The following weekend would be my last weekend in New York. Chris found out, and messaged me, begging me to take him up on his Pampers for pay offer. I consented, and arranged to meet him in the Tops parking lot that night...

I was about to drive to my first diaper disaster.

I spent the day on my sailboat. It was my last weekend in New York, and I was starting to feel apprehensive about moving - and especially about leaving my boat. I'd spent my entire life in New York, and was about to embark on something new. I wasn't sure that putting Chris in a diaper was how I wanted to spend one of my last nights in New York.

I called Chris around dinner time and told him I wasn't sure.

Chris begged me to come. He told me he'd been looking forward to it... he needed the money... I'd promised to spend time with him over the summer but never came through... he needed the money...

I relented, and made the thirty-minute drive. I'd spent the previous day packing for the move. My head was pounding by the time I got there, and I wasn't looking forward to the drive back, much less spending the night awake with Chris.

For the first time I wanted to not put someone in a diaper...

Chris was about to help me out.

I sat in the parking lot for twenty minutes. It wasn't like Chris to not be ready and waiting. Save the first time we'd met, when Chris actually was waiting but at the opposite end of the parking lot, he'd always been the one waiting for me.

At the entrance to the grocery store were two city police squad cars. Probably a shoplifter, I thought. I wondered whether it was Chris. I glanced around the parking lot and noticed an unmarked car in the corner by the gas station. Sting operation? Were my days of paying to Pamper about to come to a close?

I tried calling Chris, but his phone was off. Must be why he needed the money... I thought. I waited another five minutes and then, figuring twenty-five minutes was enough time, I turned on the engine and began to drive away.

As I prepared to pull out of the parking lot I saw him: Chris, coming out of the liquor store. His swagger was unmistakable, and I remember thinking he must have been in there the entire thirty minutes because I would have seen him go in...

Chris looked straight at me, and then looked away and began walking in the opposite direction.

Wtf?

I'd driven thirty minutes to meet him, and now he was giving me the cold shoulder. Something was up. He was acting strangely, and I noticed that he seemed totally different: distant and, for some reason, twitchy. I wondered if he'd been like that before but I hadn't noticed.

I drove by him and slowed down. Chris didn't look at me, and kept walking. I shrugged and began to drive away, but he shouted and I slowed down; he then ran up along side me and opened the door, getting in.

Chris sat next to me for about ten seconds as I drove across the parking lot toward the exit. As we pulled into the exit lane he pointed to a parking spot.

"Pull in, pull in, pull in, I can't do this."

Wtf?

I stopped and Chris opened the door, stepping out. He leaned in my window, looking at me blankly, and it looked like he'd been crying.

"I'm sorry, sir. I just can't do it..."

Chris had worn diapers for me on numerous occasions, and he was backing out?

"Are you sure, Chris?" I asked him. "If you can't I understand, I'm just surprised..."

Chris opened the door again and flopped his bottom into the seat next to me.

"It's just that... I mean... I don't want to... but I feel like... I have no choice," he stammered.

Before I could even begin to feel the corresponding guilt for diapering Chris and leaving him scarred for life, he continued:

"Sorry, but I have to."

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, clenching it in his fist and holding it in my direction.

"I need the money up front, sir," he told me. "I need it now."

If you've never had a knife pulled on you you're missing out. It really helps clear your mind. Any thoughts you may have had before the moment you realize you're being robbed clear out, and are replaced with new thoughts - usually ones relating to your predicament.

"So you're robbing me?" I asked. The answer should have been obvious; Chris was holding a dagger a few inches from me and demanding money. I asked anyway, because it's what came into my head at the time. "You're seriously robbing me?"

"I didn't want to do it, sir," Chris blubbered. "I tried to walk away, but you made me get in. I wanted you to just drive away without seeing me. I really need this money, sir..."

At the moment a few thoughts were whirring:

• I had more than $1,000 cash in my pocket.
• There were police less than 50 feet from me.
• I was being robbed at knifepoint by a crackhead.

"I can't believe you're robbing me, Chris."

I was truly hurt. And, at that point, I noticed that Chris was crying. Crying just a little but, still, crying nonetheless.

"Sir, consider this a loan request," he told me, still holding his knife up to me. "I need this money tonight. But if you give it to me, I will owe you. I'll wear a diaper for you anytime you want, and you can spank me, too... please, sir."

The irony of someone holding a knife to me while submissively calling me sir was somewhat humorous, although I'm not sure if I thought so at the time. I was thinking of the huge amount of money I had, in 100s, in my pocket. I considered hitting the car's 'panic' button and summoning the police; this, however, could end my run of diapering thugs, at least in this city. I decided against it.

"You could have asked me for a loan, Chris," I told him. "I considered you a friend. I would have loaned you that."

"Sir," Chris interrupted, "I still consider you a friend. I always will. It's just..."

"Friends don't rob friends at knifepoint," I told him. I was getting angry. Chris's eyes were red with tears now, and I could see that something was wrong with him. I wished I'd followed my instincts and just left when I'd wanted to. Still, something made me worry about Chris; what if something serious was going on.

"See that Impala?" I asked Chris, pointing to the unmarked. Chris nodded. "That's a plainclothed police officer. You're sitting in my car, in full view of security cameras, holding a knife. That's prison time, Chris. Put your knife away, now."

Chris slowly replaced his knife in his holster. He looked embarrassed now, and I was fairly certain that he was thinking of how much easier asking for a loan might have been...

"Get out of the car," I ordered. Chris looked skeptical.

"Sir... I really, really need this money. Please, sir," he begged. "I'll come back tomorrow and wear diapers all day. Or anytime you want. Please, just let me hold it tonight..."

"Get out and stand by the window," I repeated. Chris looked apprehensive, but obeyed. He made sure that he held the door tightly and then, as soon as it was closed, leaned into the window. That was fine; there was no way in fucking hell I was about to let him sit next to me with a knife while I pulled out $1k+. No fucking way...

I pulled out my wallet and opened it. Chris's eyes popped at the cash. He said nothing, and I pulled a $100 out and replaced my wallet. I leaned toward him, extending it out. His eyes furtively darted to the police cars before he quickly took it, crumpling and putting it into his pocket.

"You have no idea how much this means, sir," he told me. "When would you like me to make it up to you.... tonight? Tomorrow?"

"I'll let you know," I told him. Chris shoved the hundred down into his pocket and, without another word, began shuffling across the parking lot. He looked ashamed. I knew I'd never see him again.

I've diapered 70+ people I met on the party line and/or MySpace. I've only been robbed by one. (Nearly scammed by a second, but that's another story for another blog entry). Chris was that one. He robbed me but, before that, he'd become my friend.

Chris had been high on crack that night. He was in a crack-crazed frenzy - cocaine was sweeping the city in '06, it seemed like, and anyone "thug" had to have a crack at it lol. I later found out from Leo, our mutual friend, that Chris had developed a habit weeks before.

The day after Chris robbed me he called me and asked me to come back. "I owe you a night in diapers, sir," he told me. I agreed but told him I'd take a rain check. "I think I have a bare-assed paddling coming soon, sir?" I agreed - but, still, a rain check.

Sure, I'll pick you up - so you can take the other $900...

Chris and I continued to be friends on AIM and, incredulously, Chris continues to talk to me up to this day. He was offended that I didn't meet up with him for Christmas '06, and that I didn't diaper him in summer 2007. In 2008 he was beginning to figure out that his diaper-wearing days were over. By that summer he'd told Leo that I was "an asshole."

"You did rob him at knifepoint," Leo reminded him more than once.

"Yea, but... we were friends," Chris would tell him.

Exactly...

Chris still tries to friend me on Facebook. Two weeks ago he requested me, and I grabbed two pictures to share here.

I have a few rules. If I diaper you and you want to remain anonymous, you will. Your picture will never be used, and your first name will be changed in my blog.

Rob me at knifepoint, however, and the rules go out the window...

[NOTE: PICTURES HAVE BEEN REMOVED]

Chris got Pampered, paddled, and humiliated. In the end, he got revenge. He became a friend, then traded the friendship in for a baggy of coke.

Diapering thugs for dough has given me some dope-ass experiences I'd never would have had otherwise. Even knowing the risks I'd do it again today...

Pampers Cruisers: Aidan Edition

I just had to share some original artwork from Aidankid: a bag of Pampers Cruisers - with Aidan on the package. Wow! Haha. How many of us have dreamed of walking into the diaper aisle of the Piggly Wiggly and finding a bag of diapers in our size? Gone are the days of being relegated to the INCONTINENCE aisle... with the new Pampers Cruisers we can shop where many of us feel we truly belong, or at least long to be...

This is, of course, a Photoshopped creation. (I'll let you try to figure out which parts are Photoshopped and which are real). The kid definitely has some talent; hoping he comes up with more along the same lines, but for now this dream-fulfilling package will have to suffice. I know that I, for one, will be thinking of it anytime I "accidentally" pass through the diaper aisle on my way to the geriatric section of the drug store...

Thanks, Aidan!

You can link to Aidan's RUPadded profile here.

Thugs In Hugz: Continues Soon...

This week I'll be concluding the story of Chris, my little Huggied thug from 2006. I promised to write about our last diaper weekend together, and how he robbed me - the only person ever to steal from me in all of my experiences of diapering straight boys.

This week I was cruising MySpace and Facebook for a photo or two - he still sends me requests from time to time, despite having robbed me lol - and I found this in his comments. One of his friends left it, and I had to laugh, thinking about how a liquor-filled baby bottle had exploded in his eye a few years before. Did he share his own diaper stories with his friends?

Story continues this week...

Coming Soon: Guest-entry from a Bambino Baby with a review - and a point of view. Stay tuned...

YouTube Tuesdays: Expanding Our Horizons - Serbia

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