Mary and Daphne #47 (Patreon)

Dammit. No, you can handle this. But ... dammit! Wake up. Wake up! Wake up and feel better!

Or rewind. Mary had a migraine, so Mary took a pill for it, closed the blinds, and got in bed. If being in her general proximity would make her feel better, I’d have been in bed beside her being all friendly and supportive. That would only make her feel worse though, so instead I was in the hallway trying to decide what to do.

So what is it I needed to accomplish? Well, I had to pee. And you’re asking, aren’t there other bathrooms in your house besides the master? And there are. But a million years ago, when Mary didn’t have a migraine, she said, “You’re on the path to a smack bottom, little girl,” which I was not (okay, was) and am not (really!), “let’s see if a diaper on that bottom of yours will right your wagon before I have to tip it over my knee.”

And as an aside, my metaphors are way better than hers. No one tips a wagon over their knee, and no one who wasn’t alive during the Depression says, ‘right your wagon.’ So she really can’t be picking on me when my metaphors get all out of control.

But not digressing, and focusing instead on writing this down so I can mentally process my trauma like my (imaginary) therapist says to, you’re wondering, okay, if you were wearing a diaper, why not just pee in it?

Which just goes to show you’re all on Mary’s side and wanna see me with a giant diaper strapped to my bright red butt, buncha jerk faces. Don’t even know why I talk to you sometimes (this shit is getting meta), because I already told you I don’t like diapers and I hate peeing in them and I only do it because Mary says and I am not a little girl and no one will listen to me! Argggh!

So the answer to your stupid assing question is I already peed in the damn diaper. Several times. A lot. I’m no expert on diaper engineering or fluid dynamics or peeing myself, but I could tell if I went again it would be running down my leg. I didn’t think Mary would be best pleased if I made a puddle, and for damn sure I wouldn’t be. I didn’t even wanna sit down. Plus, not comfortable. Like wearing wet laundry. Well, at least by that point.

I should take a moment to point out that despite my much besmirched and maligned record, I am too(!) a good girl. I’m a rule follower and always have been. My first grade teacher even said, “Daphne is a good rule follower and gets anxious when those around her are not following rules,” and granted, she said that on a referral to see the school counselor, but the point stands, and I am a good rule follower and I do not get anxious. Flustered, perhaps. Fuddled? On occasion, but never ever befuddled. Stressed? A touch, again on occasion, but I’m very good at holding that in so no one even notices, and speaking of no one, no one asked for the opinions of the legumes in the peanut gallery so zip it.

I am a good rule follower who stays calm and collected and makes good choices when confronted with situations in which rules are not so easy to follow. And the rules are that if Mary makes me wear a diaper, it can’t come off until I pee in it. Check and triple check my stellar adherence to that rule. The other is she or someone else has to take it off unless she says otherwise. She didn’t say.

Add in that she made me wear the thing because I was, allegedly, in need of a low grade reminder to correct my, allegedly, askew behavior before she decided events had escalated from me, allegedly, needing a reminder to behave to me, allegedly, needing my butt spanked until I wish I had heeded all the reminders. Allegedly.

Sometimes I think the important people in my life are way too free with the alleging.

She didn’t say it could come off at a certain time or that I could take it off. She just put me in it, and an hour later she said, “I’ll be in bed” followed by the sound of her spewing. Poor little thing.

And poor me. I didn’t even do anything. Or not one particular thing. It was one of those accumulations of little things over a spank-free period (a whopping four days, not counting the casual swat on the spot). She couldn’t even articulate what those accumulating things were to a degree of specificity I found satisfying, but I take it as gospel that she knows what she’s talking about. Otherwise the only conclusion would be she just makes stuff up when she wants to smack my butt repeatedly. That couldn’t possibly be it (insert sarcasm symbol here).

So if I was already on my way to being in butt jeopardizing trouble, I didn’t wanna break any rules no matter how asinine and unfair and wet they are. And on top of that, my Mary didn’t feel well. She felt like utter crap. She migraines like she does everything: thoroughly.

I didn’t want her to wake up and see I’d broken a rule. I wanted her to wake up and find me ready to take care of her. She only ever has a migraine until she can fall asleep and sleep it off, but then she has aftershocks for a few days. She needs all the TLC she can get. Maybe I’d get a dispensation for eventualities, but I’d much rather she reach the same conclusion as my first grade teacher: Daffy is a good rule follower. Also, that I’m good at sharing and making others feel included, just to throw that out there. And we can leave out the stuff about me getting all anxious when rules stop working or people stop following them because it’s just not true and all this talk about rules being broken or ceasing to function under less than ideal circumstances is making me wanna run a lap around the block, which is not a sign of anxiety so we’ll just stop talking about it. Besides, all I could’ve managed at that point was a swift waddle down the driveway and back.

So, because I’m am a good rule follower (actually, one of the best ever) and because I didn’t wanna pee on the floor and because I didn’t know if Mary was gonna be asleep for twenty more minutes or four more hours, I had to play the hero. And I don’t mean running into a burning building hero. I mean your heroes from the foggy days of pre–history when gods and men fought on the plains of Troy. Heroic like Achilles at Troy wrangling that horse they modeled the parade float after. Like, it goes Zeus, Athena, Achilles, me, Hephaestus, the Titans, and dogs who save babies.

Heroes need a hand sometimes. Enter the trauma portion of this sordid tale of heroic rule following and avoidance of floor piddling.

If bathrooms were verboten (see? I’m such a good rule follower, I have to resort to German, and they don’t even jaywalk) and Mary was in no condition to play her antihero role in this situation that she and the good people who make ice tea you can brew cold had put me in, I had to bite down on that Trojan horse’s fetlocks (what part of the horse is that anyway?) and seek neighborly help.

I had to go to the car first because Mary’s supply of disposable unmentionables is kept in the bedroom, and if I could walk into the bedroom without making her cringe and probably spew again, I wouldn’t have had this problem in the first place. So I went to the car hoping there was at least one such underthing, which was a first. And there was, thankfully. Then it was through the backdoor of the garage and into the back yard to begin the Diaper Death March to Nana’s house.

Shpilkes everywhere. And I caught myself doing something my pediatrician brought to my parents’ attention when first grade and Miss Judgy–and–Helpful were several years in the future, walking on my toes. It wasn’t like I was sneaking. Just something I did as a super duper young adult (toddler) that I had to be physical therapied into not doing but I’d start doing again if I felt nervous as super young adult (small child).

I don’t think I’d done that in years since. Like, the last time was probably the first time Mary crooked a finger at me and ordered me across the room and over her knee. Or maybe walking down the aisle, but not really because it was one of the four–ish times in my life when I wore heels so I was already on my toes and super focused on not face planting in front of everyone I knew.

I got as far as the gate in the fence, and for a moment it seemed like a cathedral door and I had to think of the Elvish word for friend to make it open, but I just had to lift the latch.

I padded across the backyard, got to the back door, raised my fist to knock, and felt sure I could anxiety–spew twice as far as Mary could migraine–hurl. But like Achilles working up the courage to go commando under his leather skirt, I made myself knock.

Enough seconds went buy (fourteen, maybe?) for me to decide this was stupid and not worth following the rule on and I’d make it up to Mary and take entirely new punishments for being unfaithful even if she said I didn’t do anything wrong, and that’s when Nana answered the door like Gandalf opening the door to the Dwarvish city of Morristown, NJ. (Unemployment during a pandemic affords one lots of time to read but maybe too many distractions to crack all the details, which I say because for a second I thought Morristown is in Pennsylvania; my B).

“Hi, Daffy,” Nana Gandalf said cheerily. She’s pretty much always cheerful. Or maybe the appearance of little ol’ me makes her brighten up to 130 watts.

“Um, can I come in?”

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, um, uh-huh.”

“You look like you’re gonna jitter bug right out of your shoes.” See, if Nana said my wagon was off kilter, that would make perfect sense. Mary just says stuff like that because she wants to grow up to be a lesbian Flanders.

“Mary is sick.”

“O no. Is it ...”

“Not sick. Just a migraine. She’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do for her?”

“Ha!” Oops. Nervous laughter. “I mean, um ...”

“Goodness, child, are you feeling alright? You look white as a sheet.” Without a mirror, I’d have guessed green around the gills, but we’ll go with hers.

“I need help.”

“I’ll help. What is it?”

I started giving myself one of those internal monologue pep talks that takes two seconds to say in your head and two minutes to say in a mirror (not that I ever do that. Really.) And it went something like, You are Daphne. You’re history’s best rule follower. Mary gave you a rule. Nana is bizarrely okay with that rule. Just a few months ago you let Mary do a body inspection on camera in front of a buncha strangers. You can handle this. Asking for help is a very mature thing to do. Achilles asked Diomedes for help, and no one even remembers him. And you’re not nervous. You’re gonna stop shaking, is what you’re gonna do. And you’re gonna stay dry eyed the whole time, because there’s no reason to get all emotional. And if you need to get all emotional, you’ll pick an emotion besides weepy because we’re sick of that. Hardly interacting with anyone for six months doesn’t cause normal people to lose the ability to handle adverse situations without getting weepy, let alone us heroic persons. And that’s what you are: a 31–year–old hero in a sopping wet diaper. And why? Because your wife made you in the forlorn hope it would help you avoid getting your bare bottom spanked. Like all the great heroes. Where is Nana taking you?

“Earth to Daphne.”

“Huh?”

“Come sit.”

Bad idea! And we’re sitting. Crap. And that was a squish. Double crap.

“Are you really okay,” she asked me.

“Mmm ... mhmm. I’m just, um, nervous. Is what I am.”

“You don’t need to be nervous with me, Daffodil.” Aww. She learned one my favorite pet names.

“B–bb–but, I k–kinda ...” I don’t have a nervous stutter. Anymore.

“What’s in the bag?” Maybe she thought she needed to help me ask for help, which would not have been an unfair conclusion. She reached over and took the strap from around my shoulder. “My kids had book bags just like this,” she said as she unzipped it. “I didn’t know they still made these.” And she looked inside and said a very flat, “O.”

Which is exactly what Diomedes said when Achilles asked him for help. You can look it up. It’s in the best translations. That call back to the war to liberate Helena, Montana gave me a newfound confidence to bravely and professionally and courageously tell her, “Mary is asleep.” You said that already.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. And you’re not allowed to do it yourself?”

“(Head shake) (Look at floor) (Feel immense humiliation).”

“That’s alright.” She put her hand under my chin, with her soft woman–of–a–certain–age lady fingers, and lifted my gaze. “Hey – it’s alright. Let’s get you fixed up. C’mon.” She stood.

She’s being awfully forward about the hand holding, I thought and gently took my hand away before finding my voice again. Hard to believe I’m ever speechless, and that’s because I’m not. I’m laconic, like the Lacedemonians and Clint Eastwood. “Wait. I should ... I shouldn’t ... This is ... wrong. You shouldn’t do this. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come over.”

“Daffy, I already told you it’s fine a buncha times.”

“But...”

“Daphne Ann.” It’s not fair Mary conditioned me to make my ears perk up when someone uses both my names. “Please take a deep breath.” Oxygen does help, I gotta admit. “We don’t need to do anything you don’t want to, but I will do anything you want me to to help you. Understand?”

“(Unsure jerky head nod).”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I wanna follow the rules,” I mouthed.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said I wanna follow the rules,” I managed to meep.

“Okay. Let’s go upstairs and do that.”

I walked in front of Nana up the stairs past all the pictures of her kids and grandkids on the wall.

“You shorts are wet,” Nana said. I didn’t answer, and I wasn’t surprised. I shouldn’t have sat down. “Let’s go into the guest room.”

I made a right at the top of the stairs and went into the guest room–slash–playroom. The toys on the floor were in a different arrangement of disorder, so I guess either Nana had taken up Transformers (which I could see her doing because she is awesome and young at heart) or her grandkids were over.

“Wait right here,” she said and disappeared back into the hall. She came back with a towel and laid it on the bed. She put the bag down next to it and looked me over like I was a puppy who got lost in the rain and needed to be sat by the fireplace and fed broth from a spoon, but I was no more than twenty percent, maybe thirty percent tops, that pathetic.

“Do you want me to, um ... o, Daffy. C’mere.” She came all of the two feet to me and hugged me hard. “You need to calm down,” she said. “You’re shaking.”

Well, yeah. Adrenaline will do that to you. And I had this feeling that is hard to describe. It sucks that we have to live in a body for our whole life.

“You’re okay, really,” she said to me. She stepped back half a foot but kept her hands on my shoulders. “Would it help if I told you it’s not the first time I’ve changed a diaper on a big girl?”

“Really?” Also, let’s pause and take note of Nana recognizing that I am a big girl. A heroic one, though she left that part out.

“Uh-huh.”

“Who?” Because maybe it would explain why she was so oddly okay, one might even say chipper, with this.

“Before I got married, I worked at a respite camp for people with special needs.”

Ugh. Well, that just makes her more of a saint than I already knew, but, “I don’t have special needs.” Unless you count my brain being wired in such a way that I crave the lifestyle me and my Mary live, which I don’t count as special needs. A burden sometimes, maybe, but not a special need.

“Of course not, Daffy. I just want you to know that this is not a big deal to me. You’re like one of my very own.” Her own what? Kids? Campers? I somehow doubted she’d be okay diapering one of her adult children without some medical reason for it. “Are you ready?”

“(Shallow breathing) (Jerky head nod).”

She took her hands off my shoulders and went to my shorts. It wasn’t as easy for her to open the button, but then she doesn’t have as much experience at unbuttoning someone else’s pants as, o, say, Mary does. And I could’ve done it myself. I was just having a diapered-deer-in-the-headlights moment.

“Step out,” she said, and then we both realized we’re not experts at this because my shoes were still on. After that minor struggle, I was in my shoes, tee, and Mary’s soggy diaper. Let’s call that outfit toddler chic.

“Lay down,” she said, and I did as I thought about whether it would be less awful to do this standing. She started rummaging in the bag, and I laid there thinking about whether it was less awful to pop my knees up or just let them fold over the end of the bed.

“Everything we need,” Nana said. “Mary takes awfully good care of you.”

I fixated on her ceiling. It felt so wrong. I wanted to run away. Was I breaking a bigger rule by involving my vanilla neighbor? Was I changing our friendship forever? And what the hell was she even doing? I’ve only ever changed a diaper when I was babysitting and never in my life volunteered to do it. And she had volunteered, then practically insisted, and not for her grandkids but for her adult neighbor. And what was I even doing? Maybe my first grade teacher had a point about me not handling a breakdown in the rules well. At what point does wanting to follow the rules become pathological?

Intent on staring at the ceiling and philosophizing, I was caught off guard when Nana put a throw blanket over my upper half, probably because I was shivering, which wasn’t because I was cold.

“Daffy, look at me for a sec.” I did. “You don’t need to be nervous or afraid. This is just a friend helping out a friend. It’ll be over in a minute. You’re a very good girl for following the rules so well.”

Ooo. She called me a good girl.That helped, and then realizing it helped undid it and made it even weirder.

“Are you ready,” she asked. I barely nodded, more of a twitch, and put my arms over my face. First one, then two, then three and four tugs at the tapes, and air hit my damp and very sensitive skin, followed by the very light scent that said I’d been in that diaper too long. It was a not welcome physical reminder that my bizness was all on display to our neighbor, and any minor sense of ease that had begun to creep in was replaced by whatever part of my brain is responsible for ethics to round up whatever part of my brain is responsible for dignity, and the two of them went over to the part of my brain responsible for moving and started kicking the crap outta her.

Get up! What are you doing? This is crazy! You’re breaking your own rules!

And I was, I guess. Don’t drag others into your kink is a common kink rule, but I take it very seriously. Preserve your friendships because there are too few friends in life. That’s another rule, and I don’t know if I could ever be friends with Nana like I was ten minutes ago. Or if she would ever see me the same way. Breaking my own rules to follow Mary’s. I felt like I was trapped in a riddle. But only because of Nana. If I didn’t have her, there would be no riddle here. I’d have just broken Mary’s rule, I suppose.

“Lift for me,” Nana said and interrupted my too late realization, and I did. She got a wipe out. “I’m going to touch you now. Is that okay?” Another head twitch. “Here it comes.”

Her hand felt unsure. Mary’s hand is never unsure, but she’s usually trying to be aggressive with it on purpose. I felt like I wanted to squirm away, this swirling feeling in my muscles.

She used two wipes, and I lifted again so she could get my cheeks and slide the new diaper under me. I wasn’t paying very close attention even though every sensation felt like it was crashing against my entire body in that hyper–aware state that adrenaline causes.

“Almost done,” she said, and I smelled and felt the coolness of the powder as she sprinkled it on. She pulled the diaper up between my legs, and I felt myself instantly start to relax just to have myself covered again. She did as good a job as Mary with the tapes, but then she has a lot more experience I guess.

“All done.”

I moved my arms to peak, and the room looked like it had despite the whole world having changed in the course of one diaper change. She smiled at me. I get smiled at a lot. There are so many kinds of smiles, and Nana’s smile was the kind that tries say you’re safe. I sat up. Nana put the wipes away and started to zip up the bag. She stopped suddenly.

“Do you need this,” she asked.

“Need what,” I managed to croak out.

Her turn to look embarrassed. Her eyes drew my eyes to the rolled up diaper. “Do you, um, need to show Mary you followed the rules?”

O god I just wanna faint. “Mmm-mmm.”

She seemed relieved. “Why don’t you go downstairs while I tidy up? I’ll just be a minute.” I got up off the bed and reached for my shorts. “No no,” she said gently. “Let me rinse those and put them in the dryer. You take the blanket.”

So in a dry diaper, my tee, and shoes, I wrapped a blanket around myself. I felt like a whistle went off when I got to the stairs, like what I’d done was over and the parts of my brain that had disengaged to get me through that were called off their break and sent back to work. I felt less of every little sensation and took in the big picture. The first thing I realized was I was standing in her stairwell in a diaper and wrapped in a blanky. The second was that I had to pee even worse than when I got there. My brain started panicking and arguing with itself.

What if I do it and she finds out?

But you can’t leave – she’s got your pants!

But we have to pee!

This is your fault!

Fuck you! It’s your fault!

Fuck you too! How is it my fault!

Because the rule is you have to pee in a diaper and you can’t take it off. No one said anything about putting another one on once the first one is off, ya dumbass!

But ... DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT ALL TO HELL!

So this is all your fault and Mary’s fault and Sandy’s fault and quarantine’s fault and we never would’ve gotten to this point if they hadn’t driven you to this nutcasery!

So it’s their fault and not mine then!

It’s your fault, too, because you let them!

Screw you! We’re part of the same brain!

I’m the Id! I’m responsible for sex, kink, and things that feel good but are bad for you. You’re the Super Ego. You’re the one responsible for higher order decision making, but nooooooooo. You just go on a five–minute break every time you feel conflicted.

I did not go on break! I just didn’t stop you from making a bad decision!

Guys, guys! (That was my Ego talking.) There’s no need to argue. We all suck.

“I do not,” I protested out loud. Oops. God just made me weird. I went to the living room and was about to sit down when my bladder sent a stabbing signal to my brain.

Fuck this, my Id said. We’re peeing.

Not gonna argue, said my Super Ego.

Isn’t consensus so much better, said my camp counselor of an Ego.

I had to pee so bad it hurt to actually do it. My Ego jumped in and declared, No more iced tea today.

And I let out a great big sigh. I had to pee so bad it hurt to do it and then felt almost like a whole ‘nother kind of release when it was over. I reached back to give my butt a feel before sitting down.

“Is it not comfortable,” Nana asked.

Good thing I’d already peed because I was nervous enough I’d have done it anyway with her sneaking up on me like that. People are always sneaking up on me, if we define sneaking as approaching me when I’m not paying attention.

“It’s fine.” I sat down and tucked the blanket in all around and under me.

“Good,” she said.

“Um, thank you.”

“Glad I could help. Do you wanna watch something while we wait for your shorts?”

“Um, is that it?”

“Or we could bake something if you won’t tell Mary.”

“I mean ...” How was she normal? Life isn’t fucking fair, but I’m a hot mess on an almost daily basis since this whole damn pandemic thing, and she’s just breezy as can be and all normal and not even thrown by what had just happened. “Do we, um, talk. Need to. Need to talk?”

“We do if you do.” She reached over and patted my thigh through the blanket.

“I just, um ...” Fucking just say it! “I only did that because I like to follow the rules.” She nodded. “Does that ... does that make me weird?”

“Of course not! It’s just who you are.”

“And if who I am is weird?”

“Then who cares? I’m at least as weird as you.”

“No you’re not.” Um, she ain’t even seen the stuff in our closets.

“Daffy, do you really think what I just did isn’t weird? It takes two to change a big girl diaper, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“But you’re not ... you seem like it’s not a big deal to you.”

“It’s not. Honey, listen to an old woman. It took me way too long to learn it, but there’s nothing wrong with being weird and nothing wrong with meeting people where they are. What would be wrong is I didn’t treat you like who you are. If you didn’t want me to, that’s one thing, but you told me told who you are and said that’s how I should see you, so that’s the right thing to do. It doesn’t bother me one bit. It’s fun even.”

“That was fun?”

“Well, not so much that, but would we have so much fun together if we had a non–weird neighbor relationship? Of course not. You’re my friend, I want you to be taken care of, and I’m happy to help when you need me to and happy to butt out the rest of the time.” I was quiet for a moment. I didn’t know what to make of that. “Put it this way,” she said, “as your friend, I’d rather change your diaper than drive you to the airport.”

“Ha!” She can be funny AF sometimes. “But … okay … It still feels … wrong. You, um touched me.”

She looked pale all of a sudden. “Are you okay with that?”

“Y–yes. I … I’m okay with that. For that, um, purpose, under the circumstances.”

“And so am I, which means we didn’t do anything we didn’t each agree to.”

“But, I mean, you’re not one of us.”

“One of who?”

Perverts, I thought. “People who … live our kind of lifestyle. It’s not right to … involve you.”

“Daffy, I offered, and I meant it. You didn’t make me do anything. I’m more worried I made you do something.”

“You didn’t! I … I only … I just wanna do what Mary says.”

“Maybe she needs to think about what the means a little harder then.”

“No, I mean it makes me happy to do what Mary says.”

“So, right now you feel happy.”

“I feel … a lot of things … Funny how sometimes it’s easier to talk to you about these things than Mary.”

“I’m neutral,” Nana said and winked at me. “One thing I’m curious about, though. Why, um, why do you like to do what Mary says so much?”

The answer to that question surely lies at the middle of a ball of yarn that will never be unwound. And the ball is protected by a troll who will only give it up if you can answer two riddles and solve The Unknotting Problem. And it’s under the sea.

“I just … I like to please people, and I like to please her even more. It makes her happy. She likes to take care of me, and when I follow the rules, I guess I’m letting her do that. She … ha … she’s proud of me when I do that.”

“You must trust her an awful lot to let her ‘take care’ of you the way she does.”

“Of course I do. She loves me. I love her. It’s just one of the ways we express it … which is what makes it feel wrong when we drag others into it. I just don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You don’t, Daphne. Neither of you do. I really do enjoy being a part of your lives. What else would I do at my age? Play canasta?”

“I don’t even know what that is … And we like that you’re a part of our lives.” We had an awkward pause. “Does … do you see me differently now?”

“I saw as you as someone in need of fresh pants, and now you have them, so no.”

“I mean, from before. Before … when you first found out about us. Do you see me differently now that there’s … more to it.”

“Nope.”

“No?” I had a sixth sense she was just saying that.

“When I found out about you too, or really when you told me … honestly, I thought it made you more interesting.”

“That’s one word for us.”

“And the more I got to know you, both of you, I guess the more I started to think how special you both are. And what you have.”

“Do you … Am I, um …” I didn’t how to phrase my question. “… In your eyes, am I, um, like other adults?”

“Of course you are!”

“I’m not, uh … someone with special needs?”

“Daffy! Of course not! What would make you think that?”

“Most vanillas do.”

“Vanillas?”

“Non–kinky people. Everyone thinks we’re defective or broken or something. We’re just … different.”

“I don’t think that. I think you’re just who you are. You guys go to church, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I think you are how god made you.”

“That’s what I think … but, still …”

“What?”

“I feel more … dependent, I guess, on Mary than I used to. I wouldn’t … six months ago I wouldn’t have knocked on your door for … that kind of help. I don’t know why I’m getting like this.”

“Like what?”

“More …”  What’s a synonym for The L Word That Shall Not Be Spoken? “… submissive. It’s not such a big deal to break a rule.”

“Well …” She trailed off.

“What?”

“I was gonna say, and no offense meant, you do get in trouble an awful lot for someone who claims to like following rules.”

“Low blow,” I said, trying to be offended because I felt like I should be, but I just couldn’t because she spoke The Truth. “I just … There are tiers of rules. Some are more important.”

“So why is, um, not that I minded, like I said, but, um, why is today’s main rule one of the important ones?”

“Because …” Good question. “Because … accepting punishments, or reminders if that’s what she wants to sometimes call them, is what I … I have to. That’s part of our relationship. I can’t … If I don’t, then everything changes.”

“She’d still love you.”

“Of course she would. I just mean everything would change. If Mary is gonna be in charge, which was my idea, I have to let her be.” She smiled at me. One of those Daffy–is–a–mischievous–duckling smiles. “What?”

“I was just thinking that, maybe, you take some rules more seriously because you like those rules.”

Okay, Mary is allowed to call me on my bullplop. Others are just supposed to accept my nonsense and half–truths and equivocations at face value, if for no other reasons than because it’s the most polite thing to do. I had no choice, even under the circumstances, than to frown at her. An Achilles–level frown, I’ll have the whole world know (but not the rest of it! Please god, not the rest of it!).

She backtracked with, “But what do I know?”

“You … may be on to something … But the other stuff I said is true. It would change everything.”

“I know … Mary ... is she ... you and her are like ... you wanted her to be in charge of everything?”

“It’s not everything. It’s just some things. We’re still equal partners. All I have to do is say stop, and it stops.”

“And you never have? Sorry.”

“Not in, like, four years. And we’ve been together going on six ... It was my idea.”

“What was?”

“That Mary was ... that’s it our lifestyle. It’s not a ... a bedroom game. I wanted someone to be ... the person who keeps me in line. And then I met Mary; I wanted it to be her.”

“Why do you think you want that?”

“I don’t like being in charge. I can be, but ... she is, so when I don’t wanna deal, I can just ... get upset and run to Mary.”

“She makes it all better.”

“When she can. The other times, she just makes me feel better. You can’t be in charge and have someone like that. Not like ... I don’t have to hold it together; she’ll be the one who holds it together, and I can just be ... I can give in to my emotions and she can be rational and mature about stuff. And when I get a little too immature or bratty, she helps me get back in line.”

“Harsh way to get you back in line sometimes.”

“It doesn’t work if it’s not. It’s gotta be real or it’s just bedroom play.”

“O. That makes more sense. But it doesn’t hurt? And I know, sorry, but I know it embarrasses you.”

“Of course it does! You’ve seen the marks, at least that one time.”

“But it hurts … and feels good?”

“Yes, and I don’t know why.”

“How god made you.”

“How god made me. Just made me a little funny.”

“And, I’m guessing, feeling embarrassed sometimes too? That feels, um, good?”

“Yes, which is much more complicated.”

“How?”

“When it … there’s a difference between feeling embarrassed, or, um, even humiliated, and feeling ashamed. I don’t like that.”

“Well, do you think if I make a promise, you’ll come to me whenever you need to and talk about anything or ask for any kind of help?”

“What promise?”

“That you never ever need to feel ashamed because of me.”

Aww, crap. You weren’t supposed to get weepy.

Shut up! I’m not weepy. I’m … teary.

“Yes,” I managed to say with my lips all aquiver.

“Friend hug?”

“Yes please.” Ooo, Nana gives expert hugs. There was a well–timed ding.

“Your shorts are dry.”

“I should go check on Mary.”

“What are you guys doing for dinner tonight?”

“I dunno. Depends on if Mary is awake and wants to eat.”

“How about I come over? If she’s asleep, you and I can make something, and if she’s not feeling up to it, you and her can snuggle on the couch and I’ll make you something for you both. Let me take care of both of you tonight.”

“Do we seem like we could use it that badly?”

“Honey, I think we all could use it right now.”

“Only if we can do the same for you soon.”

“Deal.”

“Let’s go get your shorts.”

I stood up absentmindedly, and Nana got a good look at me from feet to face and got a weird smile on her face. Despite her promise I felt very self–conscious and regretted my absentmindedness. I blushed, go figure. She shook her head.

“What,” I said with some of that instant, where–did–it–come–from petulance Mary has been working so hard to cure me of since ever.

“You just look cute is all … So see? I must be weird too.”

“It’s not so weird to think I’m cute. Pretty much everybody does,” I said with an eyeroll that was directed at the universe, not her.

“I meant you look like my granddaughter when she goes out to play in the summer without her … sorry.”

I didn’t need to look down to appraise myself. “No offense taken.”

“Do you … do you need a new diaper already?”

Ugh! That is such a Mary thing to say! Maybe it’s just that all nanas are embarrassing. “I’m fine,” I said, and Nana said If you say so in body language and we headed toward her laundry room. Once I had my shorts on, and felt much better for it, I asked, “Could we, um, not tell Mary about this?”

“It’s our secret.”

“It’s just that she has enough, um, ideas for how to embarrass me already. This whole thing, really, she likes it. That’s the only reason I haven’t put my foot down.”

“No problem,” Nana’s mouth said. But I’m very observant when I remember to notice things, and her body language, I swear, said, If you say so.

And I thought something Mary would get out the bathbrush for even if there was no other way to defend my honor, but I decided not to say it anyway.

“I’ll text you how Mary’s doing,” I said. “And thank you, again, for the help … and for the talk.”

“You’re very welcome. See you for dinner.”