ABDLs

This is another part of the facility where young adult males sentenced to be diaper trained may be kept: The surveillance nursery, where the charges spend their nights under the watchful eyes of the head matron, her team of experienced caretakers and interested spectators looking in through the one-way mirror in the front wall.

“Mommy’s Little Cheater” – A 1985 Public Punishment

Friday evening, June 1985 – their split-level house in the suburbs of Orange County

Mark came home late again, reeking of Drakkar Noir and someone else’s perfume. Vanessa, in a hot-pink aerobic leotard and white Reebok high-tops, was waiting in the living room with the lights off. Before he could lie, she flicked on the lamp and held up a stack of Polaroid photos she’d paid a private eye to take: Mark and his secretary tangled up in the backseat of his Camaro.

“You wanted to act like a horny teenager, darling,” she hissed, “so Mommy’s going to treat you like one… forever.”

She’d already planned it for weeks. A splash of Qualudes in his Tab cola knocked him out cold on the shag carpet. When he came to, he was naked on a plastic changing mat in the den, wrists and ankles locked in pink leather cuffs she’d mail-ordered from an ad in the back of *Hustler*.

Vanessa stood over him in full 80s glory: teased blonde hair, blue eyeshadow, gold hoop earrings, and a shiny teal Adidas tracksuit with white stripes.

“Time for your new wardrobe, stinky,” she sang, unfolding the thickest adult diaper money could buy in 1985 (an extra-absorbent hospital garment she’d had custom-printed with little rocking horses). Baby powder, zinc oxide, four booster pads, and finally the loudest, crinkliest plastic pants in bubble-gum pink.

Next came a lemon-yellow baby dress with puffed sleeves and lace trim she’d sewn herself on her Singer, short enough that the bulging diaper seat poked out the back. A huge satin bonnet was tied under his chin, and white lace-topped ankle socks with jingle bells completed the look.

Mark tried to scream, but she popped an oversized pacifier gag between his teeth and buckled it tight.

“Bad babies don’t use big-boy words.”

Saturday afternoon – Balboa Park, Newport Beach

The sun is blazing, Duran Duran blasts from someone’s boom box, and half the county is out roller-skating or cruising Pacific Coast Highway.

Vanessa struts along the walking path pushing a monstrous custom stroller (chrome frame, pastel padding, ordered from a medical-supply catalog in Reseda). Mark, all 6'2" and 210 lbs of former high-school linebacker, is crammed inside, knees to chest, diapered bottom squished against the vinyl seat. The dress rides up; the plastic pants shine like a beacon.

He’d already lost control twice on the drive over (thanks to the castor oil she’d spooned into his bottle of Similac at breakfast). The smell is unmistakable. Flies circle.

Vanessa stops right in front of a group of Valley girls in leg warmers and off-the-shoulder Flashdance shirts. She leans down, pats the front of his soaked, sagging diaper with a loud **CRINKLE-CRINKLE**, and announces in full Valley-girl singsong:

“Aww, wook everybody! Did my big stwong hubby just make a great big poopy in his Pampy-Wampies in pubwic? Who’s Mommy’s wittle cheating stink-bomb, huh? Coochie-coochie-coo!”

Mark’s face is scarlet, tears cutting tracks through the baby powder on his cheeks. A kid on a BMX bike skids to a stop and yells, “Dude, is that your dad?!” Laughter erupts. Someone snaps a Polaroid; the flash cube pops like gunfire.

Vanessa beams, loving every second. She fishes a disposable Kodak from her neon fanny pack and hands it to one of the giggling teens.

“Here, hon, take another one for me! I’m gonna pin these up on the bulletin board at his office Monday morning. Let his little secretary see what happens to naughty boys.”

She bends close to Mark’s ear, voice dropping to a sultry whisper only he can hear:

“This is just the warm-up, baby boy. Tonight you’re sleeping in the playpen in the living room with MTV on low and a baby monitor so Mommy can hear every whimper. Tomorrow we’re going to the mall (you’re getting your ears pierced with little teddy-bear studs, and then lunch in the food court so everyone can watch Mommy feed you strained peas). And if you ever, ever want to be a big boy again… well… you should’ve thought of that before you stuck your pee-pee where it didn’t belong.”

She straightens up, pops her bubble gum, and pushes the stroller toward the parking lot, singing along with the radio:

“♪ Girls just wanna have fun… ♪”

For Mark, the nightmare in pastel plastic has only just begun.