Let's Have a Diapered Adventure!

Boys are messy creatures. From their sticky fingers to their questionable aim in the bathroom, boys have never been good at keeping things clean. A diaper just simplifies the whole process—no more "oops, I missed" or "it was just an accident!"

Moms and girlfriends are already cleaning up after them. Ever noticed how boys conveniently “forget” how to do laundry, dishes, or pick up their own socks? They already expect someone else to handle their messes—diapers just make it official!

They think farting is funny. So let’s see how they like a full diaper. Boys love to giggle about their own gas, but let’s see how funny it is when there’s more than just air in their diaper. Oh, what's that? Suddenly it's "not so funny"? Thought so!

They have the attention span of a goldfish. Oh, look! A ball! A car! A flashing light! Boys get so distracted by the simplest things—who has time to actually remember to use the potty when there are way more important things to focus on? Best to keep them safely diapered so they don’t make a mess when they inevitably forget.

They have NO shame. Boys will scratch, burp, and do all sorts of gross things in public without a second thought. If they have no problem acting like babies in front of everyone, why not dress them like one too?

They never know when to stop playing. Boys will run around, roughhouse, and completely ignore their obvious potty signals until—oopsie! Too late! Rather than trusting them with big boy underwear (as if!), it’s just safer to keep them padded so they can go whenever they inevitably lose track of time.

They’re so lazy. Let’s be honest, even if a boy could make it to the potty, would he really want to? Getting up, stopping what he's doing, actually aiming—so much effort! It's just easier to let him go in his diaper like the helpless little thing he is.

They still act like babies, so they might as well wear what babies wear. Boys whine when they don’t get their way, throw tantrums over the smallest things, and sulk when they lose. If they’re going to act like fussy little toddlers, they should be dressed like one too—diapers included!

They hate being told what to do. Which makes it even more fun! The best part? They’ll huff and puff, but there’s nothing they can do about it. They can squirm all they want—at the end of the day, they’ll still be right where they belong: safely diapered.

Deep down, they know they belong in diapers. At the end of the day, all their silly protests and puffed-up bravado don’t change the truth—boys just aren’t meant for potty training. They’re much better off being padded, protected, and properly taken care of. And while that will never change, their diapers certainly will—again and again and again

I like boys who fill their nappies.

I like boys with hairy chests.

I like boys with smooth skin.

I like boys who are shy.

I like boys who are loud.

I like boys who are good.

I like boys who are bad (especially over my knee).

I like boys who giggle when tickled.

I like boys who blush when teased.

I like boys who waddle when they walk.

I like boys who need help with their buttons.

I like boys who love bedtime stories.

who pout when they don’t get their way.

I like boys who snuggle under blankets.

I like boys who make messes and don’t care.

I like boys who whine when they’re sleepy.

I like boys who squirm when changed.

I like boys who ask for “just one more” story.

I like boys who stick out their tongues when concentrating.

I like boys who need reminders to use their words.

I like boys who hide their faces when embarrassed.

I like boys who love being praised.

I like boys who wiggle when they’re happy.

I like boys who need help tying their shoes.

I like boys who love being fed.

I like boys who get clingy when scared.

I like boys who fill their nappies.

I like boys with hairy chests.

I like boys with smooth skin.

I like boys who are shy.

I like boys who are loud.

I like boys who are good.

I like boys who are bad (especially over my knee).

I like boys who giggle when tickled.

I like boys who blush when teased.

I like boys who waddle when they walk.

I like boys who need help with their buttons.

I like boys who love bedtime stories.

who pout when they don’t get their way.

I like boys who snuggle under blankets.

I like boys who make messes and don’t care.

I like boys who whine when they’re sleepy.

I like boys who squirm when changed.

I like boys who ask for “just one more” story.

I like boys who stick out their tongues when concentrating.

I like boys who need reminders to use their words.

I like boys who hide their faces when embarrassed.

I like boys who love being praised.

I like boys who wiggle when they’re happy.

I like boys who need help tying their shoes.

I like boys who love being fed.

I like boys who get clingy when scared.

I never thought I’d be here. Not like this. Not with my knees pulled up to my chest, my fingers twisting the hem of my oversized onesie, the thick padding between my legs squishing softly every time I shift. The room smells like baby powder and something sweet, maybe the lotion she rubbed into my cheeks earlier, maybe the faint, warm scent of my own pee.

I should be embarrassed. I know that. But the way she’s looking at me, her lips curled just enough to say I told you so, makes it hard to care.

“You’re such a good boy,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing through my hair. I hate how much I love that. How my shoulders relax, how my breath hitches just a little. “All filled up for me already?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My face is burning, but my body is warm, heavy, content in a way I never let myself admit out loud. The diaper is soggy, the wetness indicators a deep, telling blue, and every time I move, I can feel it, proof. Proof that I’m not the big, tough guy I pretend to be. Proof that I like this. That I need it.

She laughs, low and knowing, as she taps my nose. “No shame in it, sweetheart. You’re supposed to use your diapers.”

I groan, burying my face against my knees. “I’m twenty-seven,” I mutter, like that means anything. Like it changes the fact that I’ve been sneaking into the baby aisle for months, that I’ve spent more nights than I’ll admit curled up in my crib, thumb in my mouth, waiting for the world to feel small and safe again.

“And?” She tilts my chin up, her thumb brushing my lower lip. “Age is just a number. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

I swallow hard. I should argue. I should push her away, stand up, prove I’m still a man. But the way she’s looking at me, like I’m something precious, something small, makes my chest ache.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Yours.”

Her smile softens, just for a second, before she’s pulling me onto her lap. I go willingly, my body moving before my brain can catch up. The diaper squishes loudly as I settle against her, my head tucking under her chin. She hums, her hand rubbing slow circles on my back.

“Such a good boy,” she repeats, and I hate how much I melt into her. How my eyes drift shut, how the last of my resistance crumbles. “All wet and heavy for Mommy.”

I whimper. I whimper. And I don’t even care.

She shifts me just enough to press her palm against the swollen front of my diaper. “Mmm. You really wet alot, didn’t you?” Her fingers tap lightly, teasing. “Bet you’re glad you’re not in those big boy underwear now, huh?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. We both know the truth.

She kisses the top of my head, her lips lingering. “My sweet, silly boy. Always fighting it until you’re right here.” Another tap, this one firmer. “Right where you belong.”

I should be humiliated. I should be furious. But all I feel is the warmth of her, the weight of the diaper, the quiet, perfect rightness of this moment.

And when she whispers, “Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?” all I can do is nod.

Because she’s right.

This is where I belong.

I recently got a private message on Fetlife from a new guy-friend who, like me and so many others have, is struggling with the guilt and shame of having ABDL interests, particularly in light of his outward masculinity.  I thought I would repost my advice here in case it can be of any help to our Tumblr friends… while we aren’t by any means experts on shame or self-care, I thought perhaps my thoughts could help others.

—

For me, there have been a couple of core concepts that have helped me release that shame and guilt. I’ll share them here in full knowledge that these aren’t the kinds of things that seep in overnight: it took me a couple of years to deeply internalize them, and even today I have to remind myself at times that I lose self-compassion or feel threatened. So, be kind to yourself… this kind of self-integration is a process, and by reaching out to others you have started it brilliantly. Kudos for your bravery!

Everyone is masculine and feminine.

Seriously, we all contain both of these energies and their requisite traits in spades. Our culture tells us a lot about how we should feel, how each gender should act, etc., but most of it is polarized nonsense for the sake of quick characterization. (One researcher refers to it as a “social role heuristic,” basically a shortcut to understand where we fit in the pecking order). For a couple hundred millennia, males have been depended upon to be bigger, physically stronger, hunt, etc., and females have been depended upon to bear and nurse children, gather provisions, nurture community support, etc., and our cultural standards have developed around these necessities. Unfortunately, we have also lumped a whole lot of psychological concepts into these functional realities as our societies have gotten more complex and our ability to abstract has improved. So big/strong/independent has turned into a role and bear/gather/nurture has turned into a role which eventually turned into a set of beliefs which eventually turned into our concept of gender.

All that to say, you are both. You are strong and independent and tough and assertive. You are also soft, open, in need of love, tender, small, and weak. Both are true, and neither requires the other to go away in order for itself to exist. As Walt Whitman famously wrote, “I am large. I contain multitudes.” I go to work, I make command decisions, sometimes I guide millions of dollars and hundreds of jobs with my choices… and when I come sometimes I want to get diapered and taken care of, and both are equally awesome. Neither requires the other one to go away in order to be true. You need to be taken care of, just like everybody else, and don’t let the business suit or power play trick you into thinking you need to polarize. You don’t. Go kick ass during the day, come home and Little-out at night. Or vice versa. You are contain multitudes.

You are not broken.

Man, this is the crux of it. Sexuality is impossibly complex, and it exists at such a fundamental level in our brain development and evolution… it pre-dates conscious thought, and our conceptualizations of our sexuality are merely best-guesses at trying to characterize something wholly abstract and base-functioning.

To think of sexualities, regardless of how culturally deviant, as being character flaws or mistakes is to miss how sexuality works. If you don’t believe me, look at the NIH-funded studies that demonstrated how easy it is to create a lemon fetish in rats. Are these rats morally corrupt? Are they broken? Are they perverts? Are they broken? Nope… their sexual development happened to overlap with a sensory stimulus and they ended up with a fetish. Awesome. Anybody got any guesses on why men are attracted breasts? Yup. Because that’s how that works.

There is nothing wrong with you. There never was. Your sexuality may be different than most people you know, but it’s not broken.  There is no normal sexuality, and I guarantee that you are surrounded by dozens of men and women at work who have sexual fetishes, bizarre interests, turn-ons and practices that they work hard to hide from the world.

You deserve to try to be happy.

The pursuit of happiness is, as the US Declaration of Independence so eloquently puts it, an inalienable right. I think it’s an inherent trait; a motivational force built into each of us in some degree that drives behavior. So goddamnit, if something makes you happy and you can do it without violating others’ right to their pursuit of happiness, go after it. Few things make me as happy as diapering my wife, and few things make me feel as loved as being diapered. So I’m going to do it a lot; it’s fantastic. If I’m not doing it enough, I’m going to create time, and if I find I’m doing it too much, I’ll back it off, as it isn’t actually making me happy. Your pursuit of something that makes you happy isn’t just nice, it’s essential to embracing your own beautiful humanity. So fucking run after it; find your thing, and do it a lot. If your partner isn’t game, that’s OK… he/she doesn’t have to be, and he/she has a right to pursue happiness too, and you guys can work out how that will work for you. Pursuing happiness is part of valuing your own humanity; if you would want it for a friend, you can want it for yourself.

Let shame teach you, then let it go.

Shame and fear researcher Brenè Brown says it better than I ever could in her TED talk on shame:

“In surviving this last year, I was reminded of a cardinal rule — not a research rule, but a moral imperative from my upbringing — “you’ve got to dance with the one who brung ya”. And I did not learn about vulnerability and courage and creativity and innovation from studying vulnerability. I learned about these things from studying shame. And so I want to walk you in to shame. Jungian analysts call shame the swampland of the soul. And we’re going to walk in. And the purpose is not to walk in and construct a home and live there. It is to put on some galoshes — and walk through and find our way around.”

It’s OK to feel it.  It’s OK really dislike that feeling, too.  But let it teach you; let it tell you about your beliefs and your contradictions without judging yourself for feeling those things.  Then, when you’re ready, choose to begin to step out of it.  Avoiding shame (like avoiding any feeling) just compresses it into a more potent version of itself, and it comes out in dark and unpredictable ways.  Don’t try *not* to be shameful, but rather ask what it teaches you about yourself, then choose to replace shame with compassion as you walk out of the swamp.

I hope this is helpful, and I’m really glad you reached out; that moment of vulnerability is a moment of profound creative and renewing energy.

My Best,

“You aren’t messy, are you?”

He shakes his head.

“I can kind of smell something. But it isn’t you?”

He shakes his head again, the side of his face rubbing against her head.

“No? So if I laid you down for a diaper change right now, I wouldn’t find out you had a messy diaper?”

This time he goes very still.

“Should we find out?” She slides one arm under his knees and hoists him up in a very awkward bridal carry, his arms around her shoulders. She takes him into the bedroom and he sits on the rug while she gets out his changing mat.

“Can you get me a clean diaper from the drawer? Don’t be silly, baby, I’m not going to pretend that we don’t need to change you. Just go get me a diaper, please.”

He crawls over to the dresser and opens the bottom drawer, revealing his neatly organized diapers and pull-ups. And the little folded pile of underwear in the corner.

He comes back over with the diaper held against his chest.

“You’re feeling really small, aren’t you?”

He nods as she helps him down onto the changing mat.

“You don’t want to talk at all right now, huh? Do you need a friend during the change?” She stands up and gets his favorite stuffy from the bed. She coaxes the clean diaper out of his hands and he accepts the stuffy in return, rubbing its ear between his fingers.

“Okay, so you told me I wouldn’t find out that you were messy if I got your diaper open, huh?”

“Mm-mm…”

“What was that? Did you say no?”

“Mm-mm.”

“No? Does that mean you didn’t tell me you weren’t going to be messy?”

“Mhm. Yeah,” he says quietly.

“I think you shook your head when I asked you earlier. Were you feeling shy?” The stuffy is up over his face now. “Still feeling shy?”

“Maybe a little bit.”

“Can you tell me if you’re messy? You can just say, ‘no, I’m not messy’ or ‘yes, I’m messy.’”

He shakes his head.

“Come on, you can tell me. It’ll help me out if you always tell me when you go.”

“Yeah, um…”

“Yes?”

“Yes, um, I’m…my diaper’s dirty.” He squirms on the mat, pressing the stuffy against his face again.

“Ohh, okay.” She undoes his zipper and gently pulls off his pants. “Oh. Yep. Super dirty. Did you go poop while you were playing earlier?”

He nods.

“In the backyard?”

“Mhm.”

“Did you know you were going to go?”

He nods again.

“How come you didn’t tell me? I could have helped you go to the potty if you wanted to.”

“Didn’t want to,” he mumbles.

“Aww, okay.” She opens his diaper and he shivers a little under her touch. “Oops, are my hands cold?”

He shakes his head.

“Soo shy today,” she says, gently pushing his legs up.

He emerges from behind his animal friend while she’s wiping him down, sucking on his thumb and watching her clean him up.

“Okay, now we’ll get the new diaper. I’m going to fluff it up a little bit and then you have to lift your hips up for me so I can get it under you. Help me out. There you go.”

She takes his stuffy-free hand and pulls him to his feet.

“That thumb has been through a lot lately. Should I just give you a pacifier?” She opens the drawer next to the bed and fishes it out. It’s usually reserved for bedtime on special nights but maybe she knows how small and needy he’s been feeling lately.

She pulls his thumb out of his mouth and he lets her slip the pacifier in.

“Better? I know that’s better. Go wait for me in the living room while I clean up your mess.”

He feels all red when she calls it his mess. “I wanna help.”

“Oh, okay. Can you go take care of this in the bathroom?” she asks, handing him the rolled up diaper. “I can get the changing mat and wipes taken care of.”

He wanders off towards the bathroom and she starts gathering everything up.

When she’s finished she finds him sitting on the couch with a plate of cookies on his lap, stuffy under his arm and pacifier on the coffee table.

“Who said you could have that?”

He looks up at her, eyes wide. “Oh! You said I could have two cookies this morning, remember?”

“Ohh, that’s right. I think I did say that. We’ll just have to make sure we get healthy stuff in you at dinner.”

“I got you some too,” he says, pointing at the table.

“Aww…” She sits down next to him and pulls it into her lap. “You were so super good today.”

He smiles and she puts her arm around him, pulling his head onto her shoulder.

“Maybe we can do something else later…”

“Oh!” He wraps both his arms around hers, leaning in closer.

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