By BitterGrey
There I was in one of the university's machine labs. Around me were machines there the size of cars. Any furnishings were steel, aluminum, and plastic. My mind and hands were wandering as we were setting up the Instrom machine, a man-sized device which took small pieces of metal or plastic, and loaded them with the weight of a couple Buicks.
My interest was captured by a rag, that seemed unusually soft. It was oil stained and worn, but there was something else. It was a cotton terry with pastel yellow trim. I could barely see a faded yellow pattern, maybe of leaves. This was no ordinary rag. Concealed under the stains from the machines was someone's receiving blanket. Most people wouldn't notice things like this or be as moved as I was, but the events of the previous week had left me sensitive. You see, I am like the blanket, I have a more cuddly side that is rarely seen.
This week, my family were going away on a vacation. I had to work through it, and so I remained home. Although there were some second thoughts, I did not have to think long about what I would do when they were gone. Strangely enough, sometimes I only tend to express myself when no one is listening.
Friday and Saturday I gathered a few things, my layette, as it were. At first, there was only a half a bag of disposable diapers that was opened a couple months ago. They were white, two-tape generic attends clones. These generics were cheaper, but noisier, thinner, and less absorbent.
About mid-morning Saturday, I taped on an attends from a previous bag. Over these I wore jeans, a T-shirt, and my cargo vest. I was also wearing a nylon jacket around my waist, for other reasons as well as the threatening weather. Then I set out for a few "errands," and then into campus to try to get some work done. My first stop was to the barber, who buzzed me and hardly talked, but didn't seem to notice my diaper. Next I went over to Thrifty to pick up my first baby bottle, that is, the first one my mother didn't now about. It was intentionally generic, with a clear plastic sides and plastic lid. My next stop was the local JC Penney, where I picked up their medical supplies catalog and another simply titled "For Baby." The first catalog was not really interesting, but had an item or two that was new. The second was the morning's real surprise, as I would soon discover. For the moment, both catalogs disappeared into the cargo vest.
Next I stopped by a hospital supplies store. At this time I was wet, but not buldgingly soaked. Any professional behind the counter would know what I planned to get was for me, so I wouldn't worry about whether or not they knew. However, the man behind the relatively bare counter was an amateur, so he knew only that I bought a pair of plastic pants and left. He probably did not know that this pair was my first. The pants themselves were white nylon with a plastic coating on the inside.
From there I went onto campus, filling the bottle with water on the way. My desk on campus is extremely quiet. I nearly had the floor to myself, as it was both summer and a weekend. I took off my shoes, pants, and the cargo vest which had become my trademark around campus. Some have started calling me McGuiver because of how well equipped this vest is. I was now wearing only a T-shirt and a mildly damp diaper. Over this I slipped on my new pants, which fit well enough, but were the same front-to-back, except for the tag. I looked at myself and felt myself, to take in the billowing plastic pants. These contrasted greatly with the ultra-trim adult disposables I was used to. Then I suckled the bottle, and got hardly anything. I drew a Swiss army knife out of my vest and enlarged the opening. Still, the flow rate was small. I was used to suckling bicycling bottles, which had the dual advantages of a higher flow rate and inconspicuousness - I had a bike to go with them. However, there is something mechanical about the nozzle, which isn't very nipple-like.
I opened the second catalog to find baby furniture. After a few pages I found myself getting lost in the "paradise on a lazy afternoon" spread. I knew it was a catalog picture, no more real than anything Madison Avenue puts out, and in my case, much less. But it called to me. It summoned me like the scent of freshly baked bread that my mom used to make so long ago. It was so soft, so warm, so clean, so innocent, so cared for. I know I got some work done, but the rest of that evening was a blur, somehow lost in the folds of that thick, crib-sized comforter.
The following morning, I had to leave not only that pleasant image, but my own bed as well, to go to Church. The sermon was about immorality, but was not as bad as most. It actually showed some potential, but little chance of achieving it. I entertained myself with daydreams of the head pastor finding BitterGrey's Den and confronting me. I realized that my counterstrike needed more practice and more study. If some flatnose (a derogatory reference to humanity, emphasizing its distinctive ignorance of aromas and relatively feeble jaws) leveled his finger against me, I would accept no excuse from myself if I was unable to show both that he was in error by condemning me and that he has unknowingly sinned because he had not studied the Law. Like stalking caribou, I was eager for more than words. I wanted to settle a certain matter with those who might not want to fight me. Such is BitterGrey's hunger. I realized that I did not belong there and wanted to leave, but to do so would be to turn my back on my service to God. And this service requires socialization, and this socialization means coming to church. Fortunately, it was a brief service, and the family van was gone when I got back home. They had left already.
I did not rush, because I knew that they might forget something, and return. No amount of reason and explanation can dull the impact of seeing your son of 25 years with dy-dee and ba-ba. As far as I can tell they don't know about me. However, sometimes I am not as careful as I should be, possibly because I wanted them to know. Still, I didn't want to get caught. After a few hours of my video game, I went to my room, and set up sort of a changing table on a coffee table. It was low and short, but it would do. I had changed myself several times before and the magic of the diaper was beginning to fade. However, it was just a costume: the play had yet to begin. Over the diaper, I wore sweats. Regrettably, I have yet to get or make a pair of footed, blanket sleepers, similar to those that inspired Disney's Thumper. I went into the living room to watch some cartoons before naptime.
Naptime involves not doing anything, which is something I do too little of. Gordon Lightfoot was playing softly, and some of his songs are powerfully nostalgic and a little infantilistic. I just laid back in my bed and told myself that right now nothing needed to be done. This was true, as I really could just lay there for an hour or two. However, I still needed some convincing. Slowly that warm quilt from the night before returned. I thought of how pleasant it would be if someone would come and scratch my chest, or get my bottle. It was a sort of bittersweet pain as I ran my thumb along the knife-edge dividing my public personality and my infantistic counterbalance. One argued with a vengeance those who had not studied as fully as himself, not really trusting anyone, and has scars from years of such fighting.
The other longed for the stroking of a firm hand across it's bareness, a comforting presence after all had been revealed. It longed for a soft voice to whisper "It's O.K., you can trust me." Tears began to form. I had so often choked them back before. They might not be acceptable among the humans. This time I let them flow: I was already in diapers, I had nothing more to loose by crying. Like shed blood, the flowing tears were somehow pleasant. Both have a healing that follows. In the end, it was a remarkable nap, but I don't think I slept much.
Afterwards, I went into the living room to watch more cartoons. My parents have cable so there were about three channels showing the kind I grew up with. One sleepy feature I caught was "The Phantom Tollbooth." The edge returned, but it wasn't as sharp as before. "Wonder what BitterGrey would make of this, if he were here?" I thought to myself. You see, BitterGrey refers to my public personality. He is well described by the name. This is no more abnormal than calling one side of a penny "heads" and the other "tails." It just makes it easier when talking about one side and not the other. My other side is not yet mature enough to have a name. He is the sort to doze off during a quiet Sunday afternoon, by the glow of the family TV. BitterGrey, however, watches. Every now and then he forgot himself and dropped in a comment, such as pointing out a poorly managed logic-inversion. The little one is not yet truly verbal, and so did not voice his complaints. The remainder of the night was mostly uneventful. It had a sense of being soft and warm, like the previous night. But there was also a shadow of tragedy, as this pleasant day would soon end.
Dawn came slowly. The lab's computer system would probably still be down, so I had no reason to show up early to get on the net. I was still in diapers, but it was different, for they would soon need to come off. In both regression and denial, I turned on the TV and stumbled across a show that seemed a fitting conclusion to my day. It was called "Fantastic Max," and is about an infant hero/agent who, according to the theme song, "owes it all to his four-ply diaper, and that safety pin." Other spins are that Max and his two toy/sidekicks are secretly able to speak. Unfortunately, these were the show's only redeeming qualities. Later, refreshed and relieved, I set off for school.
Unknown to me, however, I had a few more adventures coming. I had planned to wear diapers to bed through most of the week. Tuesday night I didn't because I had a late meeting and wouldn't have had time to enjoy them. I also found a type of diaper rash I hadn't seen before. It was red and swollen, with milky blisters where the plastic pant hems were on the sides of my hips, but not in the crotch. Usually I only got the triple-whammy rash, which combines razor burn and normal diaper rash with cyclist chaffing. This usually occurs at the hems near the crotch. Anyway, Wednesday morning I was at home, in my ordinary underwear, going over the mail. Then I was hit by a strong urge to move my bowels, and I wasn't sure I could hold it. It's been sort of a game for me to hold the urgent movements for a short time, just to see if I can. My family has a susceptibility to bowel problems, and I wanted to know what I could handle, just in case I was in a meeting or something like that. I pulled on my rubber pants to be sure I wouldn't make a real mess. I picked up a distraction, and tried to read it, but wasn't able to get my mind off my urgent bowel. I tried to hold it, but failed. It was firm, so it made only a little mess as it overloaded my underwear, only to be contained by my rubber pants. It wasn't diarrhea or constipation. The only clue to the cause were the undigested bean husks from a black-bean burrito I had before. As I was cleaning my underwear, my rubber pants, and myself, I considered how ironic it was: the morning that I wasn't in diapers was the morning I accidentally soil myself.
That evening, I tried to get in touch with my more cuddly side again. I have been dominated by BitterGrey so long that I had forgotten what youth, hope, and faith felt like. The little one was soft and fuzzy, a part of myself that I had lost long ago. The cause of my infantilism is his absence, the goal is to bring him home, so that he and BitterGrey can be side by side in a unified, balanced personality. I re-expanded the nipple hole on my bottle and prepared some warm milk. My diapers were a little wet and lightly soiled. I went to my bed, turned out the lights, and started on the bottle. I don't know how long it took, maybe a half hour. I wanted to stop scheduling and planning and composing. I wanted to be the little one, simply suckling his bottle peacefully. In this also I fell short, and gave up after running into something very different. The thought occurred to me to get a stout wooden hairbrush and paddle myself. I had never been sexually excited by spanking myself before. This was my undeveloped sexuality speaking. The sense was just so far away from that of the innocent, little one that I tasted Sunday and was trying to recapture. I gave up, changed myself, and watched some more TV.
Latter I went to bed. The morning I awoke to was not as much of a transition as Monday, but it had the same shadow about it. It was like moving away from home. I told myself that wearing diapers, especially the complete regression of naptime, would have to end. There would always be a Monday morning. But if BitterGrey could learn to love and to trust, to be tender and gentle, then that much more of the little one wouldn't have to go away.
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