90 Days of Baby (Patreon)

They had kept me in diapers for the last few months. 24/7 was the rule. Babies have to wear diapers, they  said and because I had proven to them that I couldn't be trusted, this is where I would stay.

But every ninety days I could try and get out of them. I could get out of the crinkly padding that had dominated my life. The padding that pushed my legs apart and forced me to wear baggier clothes in the summer heat.

Today was that day.

The rules were simple. We would go out together. I didn't have to wear diapers, but I did have to wear these cheap bargain brand briefs from the store. It felt odd going out, with my jean shorts caressing my body closer than before. It wasn’t like I was uncomfortable. The lack of a diaper felt foreign… unfamiliar. My legs weren’t bowed as I walked. There was no telltale crinkle. On the bright side, I felt more confident without diapers, I didn’t feel so small and pathetic. I didn’t feel owned.

If I could last the entire outing without having to use the restroom, I could get out of my diapered sentence. I could escape purgatory. I could finally be free. It is difficult to date when you have to wear diapers 24/7. It means you can see that cute person at the bar and they can come over to you and touch your elbow. Smile at you all friendly. But then a hand hovers next to your waist. It might slip and pat you on the rear… My heart would speed up and I’d wonder if they noticed I was thickly padded underneath my adult clothing. 

No, you can’t bring someone home to the plastic sheets, the high chair, the crib. You can’t bring someone home to a house where they control your every move and feeding.

No one wants to sleep with someone who smells like baby powder, who wets the bed, who eats only baby food.

But four days a year I have a chance to change all of that.  I can fix this. I can grow up.

We went downtown to the art gallery. It was quiet around noon-time, most people preferred to hit up lunch around a time like this. So it was just us and a few stragglers. We walked around staring at art, making mundane conversations about the geniuses of our time.

But from time to time they’d say something like, how are you holding up. They’d smile at me and pass me some water insisting I needed to stay hydrated. I’d do my best to just sip on water, knowing  they’d want me to drink the entire bottle before we left. It was part of the entire test. Real adults drink water, they’d insist, if you’re going to be an adult today you’ll need to act like one. You can’t be dehydrated.

We walk into the next room and I feel a slight twinge in my bladder. The water is starting to get to me. We walk through each and every room in that place. It’s hard to tell how long we have been in the  gallery. Each art piece is starting to look the same as I clinched a little hard in my diaphragm. This was starting to become a little difficult.

They asked me if I was okay, and I responded kindly saying I was fine. Because of course I was fine. I was an adult after all. But it felt like a battle was brewing down below. I started pacing back and forth as we stood around looking at a sculpture of a man who looked in pain. That pain seemed to radiate on to me as I came to the realization I didn’t have much time left.

But thankfully, it was time to leave. I felt elated, my bladder gave a sympathetic twinge, knowing it was finally going to get the release it deserved. I crossed my legs as we crawled through the city traffic. I badly wanted to ask that we speed up, but there was a rule, I couldn’t ask for anything that would suggest I needed a restroom.

I began to bite my nails, the pressure in my bladder becoming deeply unsettling.

I was sweating  now.

My heart was racing.

Right when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, we pulled up to the house. I got excited as I quickly walked up the steps. But they were taking so long with the keys. My bladder was pulsing. Throbbing.

For a moment, I thought to myself, if I had just worn a diaper today, I wouldn’t have to worry about this. But that was foolish. I was going to get out of this perpetual cycle of being trapped in diapers. I was going to be able to date again. If I could just make it to the restroom…

But when I entered the house, they gave me that look and reminded me I had an hour on the stool.

The stool was pure hell. Designed to remind me that adults could hold it if they really needed too. It faces the wall, so all I could do was stare at the whiteness. Things were looking red because my bladder was pulsing at this point. I was shaking.

I felt helpless.

I felt weak

I couldn't hold it any more.

But there was a way out. A way I could end the pain.

I opened my mouth and said out loud: “Please, I need the diapers.”

I knew this was my only option. They had made it clear that if I peed on the floor, that was another six months in diapers, but if I asked for them, admitted that I was a baby and couldn’t hold it, then it was only 90 days. 90 more days of padding. Ninety more days of crinkling and waddling around. 90 more days of a sexless life.

They took their time, unfolding the diaper and fluffing things out. The crinkles were horribly loud as I was laid back on the changing mat, a babyish mat with cartoon animals and stars on it. It crinkled almost as loud as the thick diaper I was about to be put in.

They lotioned me up and put powder on me, the puff and babies scent filling the air. My bladder ached something awful and right when I thought I was going to burst, the last tape was attached to the crinkly plastic landing strip. The noise was both heaven and a prison sentence.

The flood was massive. I instantly felt relief as my bladder emptied itself completely. My blood rushed away from my face as I felt orgasmic relief. I tried to sit up, but I was too weak to do so. The person who diapered me just patted the front of my diaper and said, “I knew you wouldn't make it. But that’s okay, you’re just a baby anyway. 90 more day for the baby.”

And they were right.  I wouldn’t make it. It meant I would have to spend 90 more days in the crib, 90 more days of baby food, 90 more days in my crinkly plastic prison.

90 more days as a baby.