Stupid Baby Story Club, Part 1: Off the Beaten Path [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

One: Off the Beaten Path

Do you know what my Mom said to me after helping me unload my belongings from the car when I was moving into my dorm? She said: “Sasha, this is going to be where you find yourself.”

She meant well, I think. But that phrase keeps repeating itself in my head, and I like it less every time. Did she mean to imply that I hadn’t found myself yet–that whoever it is that I think I am, I’m wrong and now is the time where I finally become myself? Did she mean to imply that my lack of identity was so apparent that even she could tell? Did she think I was lost? Fake? Transparent? Did she just not like who I was before, and was hoping to nudge me in an entirely new direction?

Or did she just think that was the supportive sort of thing a parent was supposed to say to their child when dropping them off at college for the first time?

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m an overthinker. Mom would probably tell you that too. She might also throw in words like ‘neurotic’ and ‘anxious.’

Thanks, Mom.

This is going to be where you find yourself.

The thing that actually upsets me about this, I think, is that she’s probably right. Either I haven’t found myself yet, or I just don’t like the version of myself that I’ve found.

College has that way about it, you know? After years of living with our parents and the rigid conformity of high school, we’re suddenly dumped out into a sprawling campus where we’re, more or less, left to our own devices. It’s everyone’s first taste of freedom, and so everyone is trying to see which pieces of spaghetti are going to stick to the walls.

Maybe I’m hungry?

I’ve never had reason to dislike who I am. I’ve never considered myself to be ‘cool,’ but I don’t think I was any type of ‘dweeb’ either. I like music. I like to sing. I like to play my mandolin.

But here’s the thing–and maybe the first clue that my mother was on to something: I didn’t bring my mandolin to college with me. I didn’t want my roommate to see it. I don’t want anyone on campus to see it. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, and I doubt I ever will. I wouldn’t call it a ‘secret,’ per se, but… Yeah, I think I’m going to have an easier time making friends by not talking about an instrument that makes me sound like a 13th century bard.

I didn’t really think about it when I left home without it, though I wouldn’t call it an accident that it got left behind. In hindsight, I knew what I was doing. And, in the void left by the absence of my mandolin, I have a vacancy for something new.

The hell if I know what that something is, though.

I can’t seem to find my footing in this place. I don’t know what I was expecting–to just step out of my dorm room on the first day of college and stumble into the clique that I’d be a part of for the next four years? Two months in, and I feel exactly like I did on the first day. No friends. No social circle. No life.

I’m not sad about it. Just bored. I can’t even be mad. Have I done enough to make friends? Have I put myself out there? Have I tried to join any groups or clubs? Have I done much of anything besides go to classes and watch old episodes of Gilmore Girls on my laptop? The answer to each is no, and I know this.

But I’m trying now. I don’t really have any sort of plan, but I’m trying to leave the dorm room a little more often, you know? I’m sure my roommate, Lara, is as pleased as punch about this. We all need our alone-time and I feel like I’ve been hogging it all as of late.

I just go places. I go to the campus coffee shop. I take a walk. I go downtown. If there’s an event going on at the Common Center, I drop by and check it out. Sometimes I go to the library and just flip through some magazines on one of their uber-comfortable sofas.

And that’s where this story starts. This story about stories.

I’m not kidding about the library sofas, they are ridiculously comfortable. It’s like sitting on a pile of soft pillows. I do this thing where I open up a book or magazine in my lap and let myself sink into the cushions, only to fall asleep within moments. Well, that’s what happened last night–I had allowed myself to be absorbed by the sofa cushion and was starting to have a dream about cupcakes when I was stirred by a conversation taking place a few feet behind me in the library.

“You’re being silly,” a feminine voice said. “There’s a thousand places that we could meet up still. It’s not the end of the world just because we can’t go back to Patton Hall.”

“I know, I know. I’m just so pissed off at her right now,” replies a hushed masculine voice. “She never thinks about other people, you know? All she had to do was be a little less careless and we wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

“It’s an accident,” the girl said. “Accidents happen. You of all people should know that.”

“We’re supposed to meet tonight. Everybody is waiting to hear where we’re going to go, and I still have no idea.”

“We can’t go to your place?”

“Mark’s there,” the guy said.

“So what if we just…didn’t meet this week? It’s not going to be the end of the world.”

“Wait, hold on,” the guy said. “Neil just texted me. He says we can meet at Garcia Hall.”

“Garcia? The arts building? They keep it open that late?”

“Probably not on purpose,” the guy said. “Neil says there’s a back door that doesn’t get locked at night. There’s a few students who use it to access the studios after hours.”

“I mean, we could just hang out a park,” the girl said. “There’s probably a number of places we could go without having to break into another campus building at night.”

“We’re not breaking in,” he said. “The door is already unlocked. All we have to do is be careful, right? And not leave our fucking dirty diapers behind–you better believe I’m going to say that to Flo.”

“Whatever you want, babe,” she said, a hint of surrender in her voice. “You should probably let everyone know soon, though.”

The two keep talking, but their voices get quieter and more distant as I assume they took their conversation elsewhere.

My eyes narrowed as I processed the conversation I had eavesdropped in on. I couldn’t really make much sense of what I had heard, but there were a few snippets of interest. Getting kicked out of a building, for one–that’s interesting. Sneaking into another building? Delicious.

And…diapers? The guy did say that, right? Because it’s so absurd that I assume I had heard him wrong. He didn’t say ‘diapers.’ He said…wipers? Someone shouldn’t leave their dirty…wipers behind.

No, that didn’t really make much sense. But…diapers?

I wanted to know more. I shouldn’t have–it was none of my business. But the longer I sat there, sinking deeper and deeper into the infinitely soft cushions of the sofa, the more my curiosity was building like a pressure cooker–desperately seeking release. I almost wish I hadn’t caught the entire conversation. Because now I had an idea of where I could go if I really wanted to know more.

Look, I’m not all that brave. Or adventurous. I’m a creature of comfort–hence the obsession with the ultra-plush sofa. But I am inquisitive. And I just so happen to know where Garcia Hall is. And, per Neil–whoever that is–other students sneak into the building at night all the time. I could be one of those students. And if I just so happened to see something that explained the weird ‘diaper’ bit? Well, I figured that would pique my curiosity and then I could go back to my dorm room. What else did I have to do?

Then, of course, I found myself being gently shaken by the shoulders as a young woman stood above me.

“Excuse me, miss? The library is going to be closing soon. Maybe you should head back home?”

Damn. Fell asleep on the library’s sofa yet again. I slowly pry myself from the thick cushions and thank the woman for not just locking me in the building overnight. As I walked out the door, I wondered to myself if I had actually dreamed the weird conversation about students sneaking into Garcia Hall. And diapers.

My feet, guided by inquisitiveness, take me past Garcia Hall on my way back to my dorm room–the very long route. Sure enough, the building looked to be shrouded in almost complete darkness.

“Just go home,” I told myself. I actually said this out loud. “It’s none of your business.”

Oh, but I couldn’t.

I slowly walked around the building, almost completely encircling it, before finding a nondescript steel door that didn’t look to be latched all the way. My heart raced as I neared it. I took a look around, checking to see if there were any security cameras or signs advising that an alarm would go off if the door was opened. No, they probably put those sorts of signs on the inside.

Do you know what my biggest fear was? Not that I’d get caught or that I’d get in trouble by campus security. It was that I’d somehow do something so stupid that campus security would then start locking this door, ruining whatever it was that the other students did here after hours. That would be how I got noticed. That would be my legacy.

Sasha: The Girl Who Ruined it for Everyone Else.

Despite these hesitations, I pulled on the door handle. It opened. There was no alarm–at least not one that I could hear. I paused for a moment or two, waiting to see if there would be flashing lights coming up over the hill. Nothing. So I shrugged and went inside.

I suspected that Garcia Hall would look weird to me even if I had gone in during the daytime, with all the fluorescent lights on and the sun shining. At night, with the lights in the classrooms and half the lights in the hallways out, it looked downright otherworldly. Student-made paintings lined the walls, while sculptures–most of them quite abstract–popped up like odd crops in random spots on the floor. I slowly tip-toed past them, wandering deeper into the dark building with no direction in mind.

I had no idea where I was going, and I worried that I would wind up getting myself lost–if I wasn’t already. I could just see it–having to wait until morning, hiding in a closet, and then stumbling out and hoping that some professor could point me towards the exit in the morning.

But then I heard something. Talking. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could detect the cadence of conversation. Multiple people talking. An occasional laugh. I was so happy to hear signs of life that I almost began running towards them, before remembering that I wasn’t invited to be a part of this secret meetup in the first place.

Might as well see what they’re talking about.

A faint light poured out of one of the classrooms. It wasn’t the room's lights, she figured. A lamp, maybe. Or a lantern or flashlight of some sort. She creeped to the edge of the doorway and paused, just listening.

“...and I guess, for now, this is going to be where we meet. Nobody had a problem getting in, right?” asked a masculine voice. I wasn’t positive, but I was pretty sure it was the same one I heard in the library.

“All good here,” said someone.

“Same,” said another.

“Sooner or later, they’re going to lock that door,” a feminine voice chirped. Was that the girl I heard in the library? I thought so. “We should have a plan B.

“We’ll figure something out,” the first guy said. “We always do. For now, let’s not worry about it. And can we just…be more careful? Please?”

“Look,” a girl’s voice–different from the one I heard in the library–said, “I said I was sorry. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, but it was an accident that got us banned from Patton, and...”

“What’s done is done,” the library-girl said, cutting him off. “Let’s just do our thing.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” the library-guy responds, his voice seeming to have let go of some of the tension it had been holding moments ago. “Welcome, everyone, to the Stupid Baby Story Club.”

The what?

“The theme for this round of stories is ‘It’s Personal’–stories from our own lives that we’ve never told anyone else before. It’s my turn tonight, and I have a story that I’m calling: Off the Beaten Path.”

Stories? I’m reminded of one of those kids shows where kids would huddle around a campfire and tell scary stories to each other. But stupid babies? Was that some sort of in-joke?

And what about…diapers?

“Before we start,” library-girl said, “let’s do one last potty-check. Everyone good to go? Nobody needs to change their diaper?”

What the fuck?

“All good,” someone said, which is followed by a few more confirming grunts and hums.

“Alrighty, then,” she said. “Drake, why don’t you tell us your story.”

- - -

Off the Beaten Path

I wouldn’t say that I was lost. I had a general sense of where I’d end up eventually–I just wasn’t sure how long it was going to take for this current route to get me there.

I had made this trek a few times before–every summer for the last few years, some high school friends and I would meet up at my pal’s cabin at some remote lake out in the middle of nowhere. Well, it wasn’t his cabin, obviously, but it might as well have been, since he was the only one in his family who used it with any sort of regularity.

There was a tried and true route to the cabin that I normally took, but this year ended up being a little different. For one, I was coming from college–not home–so I was coming from a different direction. Too, a number of the more obvious roads had been closed down after some recent flooding. My GPS app had put me on a new course, but I had the mistake of turning off when I stopped to get some coffee, and I wasn’t able to get any reception to connect again once I was back on the road.

Still, I wasn’t all that worried about it. I’d either eventually find an area I was more familiar with, I’d get reception again, or I’d find a place where I could just ask for directions or by a map. Assuming they still made paper maps.

(Is this a ghost story? What other kind of story starts off like this?)

But my optimism started to fade a little when I managed to listen to the entirety of Physical Graffiti and I still wasn’t sure how far I was from the cabin. As certain as I was that I was headed in the right direction, I was still a little nervous that I had somehow overshot my destination.

And that wasn’t my only problem. My diaper seemed at capacity–the coffee hadn’t done me any favors and I had managed to soak myself a few times in the hour or two I spent driving.

(Seriously? Is this, like, a ‘diaper club’ or something? What did the girl say? Stupid Baby Story Club?)

I was going to need to find a place where I could change myself, lest I find myself springing a leak. The last thing I wanted was to show up at my bud’s house with wet pants. I’d probably never hear the end of it.

(Maybe, like, it’s a support group for people with incontinence?)

I found this little combination storefront and gas station a few miles later. For a second, I write it off as being closed and abandoned, but at the last second I spot an illuminated ‘OPEN’ sign in the window and I pull into the small parking lot.

I’m not entirely sure what the plan is here. See if they have a public restroom, and if so, attempt a diaper change in an unknown–possibly inhospitable–environment? Worst case scenario, I figure I can just take advantage of the empty parking lot and quickly change the diaper in the backseat of my car. But I decided to take my chances with going into the store first.

For a minute or two, I’m pretty sure that I’m the only human in the entire building. Some country music is playing on the radio, but there’s nobody behind the counter. I feel like I could run up and down the aisles, emptying their entire stock of snack food and fishing lures into a sack and drive off, and nobody would ever be the wiser.

“Oh, hey,” I hear a voice finally say. “Didn’t realize we had a customer.”

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Some grizzled old guy with a mesh cap and beard? No, this was a girl. Maybe a little older than me, I guessed, but not by much. And she was cute. Like…farmer’s daughter cute, you know? Bouncy blonde curls. The perfect amount of color in her sunned skin. Fucking overalls.

(Wait…is this actually a porn story? Smut? Diapered romance?)

“Hi,” I said, my palms growing sweaty. All I had to do was ask a pretty simple question about whether or not they had a restroom I could use, but I found myself freezing up in her adorable presence.

“Was…there something I could help you with?” she asked, likely wondering why I was just staring at her.

“I was, uhm, wondering if you had a bathroom I could use?”

I was terrified that she’d ask me what I’d need it for. Obviously nobody would ever ask a question like that, but the fact that I needed to use the bathroom to change my diaper was a secret I had to keep from her, and it was keeping me on edge.

“Well, not really,” she said.

“Oh, well…I’m sorry to have bothered you then.”

“Like, we do,” she added. “But it’s out of commission. Some guy came in last week and…well, I don’t know what the hell he tried to flush down the thing, but it’s been on the fritz ever since. We’ve got a plumber coming, you know? But that might take a few more days.”

Without thinking, I blurted out: “Well, I don’t actually need the toilet, just the room itself.”

She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head a little. “You’re not doing anything illegal, are ya?”

I laughed at myself, realizing how crazy my last statement must’ve sounded. I could’ve tried to backpedal, but it just didn’t seem worth it. I figured it’d be best if I just got back in the car and kept driving. There’d be other places to stop, hopefully. Maybe some forgotten road that I could pull of onto for the sake of swapping diapers.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, miss,” I said. “I think I’ll just be on my way.”

“Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“You, uh, need a bathroom?”

“Well…I do, but if you don’t have one that’s operational, I’ll probably just–”

“Our house is just down the road behind us,” she said, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. “Less than a quarter of a mile. If it’s an emergency, I could take you down there and you could use that bathroom.”

“Oh, gosh no. Look, I really appreciate your offer, but I don’t think I could trouble you like that and…” I paused for a moment, replaying what she had said to me back in my head. “I didn’t say that it was an emergency.”

“I guess I just assumed,” she said. There was a little bit of worry on her face that I didn’t like the look of. “On account of the wet spot on your pants.”

“Huh?” I reached around myself and felt my ass. Wet. “Dammit.”

“If you had an accident or something, I could probably find some dry pants for you.”

“I…no. I have plenty that I can change into.” I tried to be vague, but I was also a little distracted by having to survey the damage in the back of my pants. The wet spot was bigger than I first realized. How long had my diaper been leaking?

“Look, just come with me to the house,” she said. “It’s really not a big deal. You can take your time and get cleaned up. Hell, you can take a shower if you want to.”

“No, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I could never ask you to–”

“I insist,” she said, some sternness coming through in her voice now.

“What about the store?”

She laughed and shrugged. “You’re the first customer I’ve had all day. I think we’ll get by if I lock the door for a few minutes.”

Hesitantly, I agreed. It was humiliating, accepting help from an attractive woman who had spotted that I had pissed myself. But all I had to do was change my diaper and my shorts and then get back on the road again. I’d never have to see her again. I decided to take my chances and I agreed.

In hindsight, I’m just as surprised as you are that I agreed to go to some stranger’s house at all. In my defense, I wasn’t really thinking about the danger of the situation–I was thinking about what I had to do to get out of this sopping wet diaper.

And, too, she was just a very sweet girl. The kind you want to trust.

(Usually the most dangerous ones in a horror story. Though…I don’t think this is a horror story.)

Maybe I’m just easily swayed by kind eyes and a, uh, ample bosom.

[“I knew,” library-girl muttered in a tone that could’ve been either amusement or frustration. “You have a weakness for the pretty ladies, don’t you?”

“Let’s, y’know, let him tell the story,” another guy’s voice said. “I want to see where this is going.”]

She locked the front door and turned off the ‘open’ sign and motioned for me to follow her through the back of the store. I was suddenly feeling really exposed and vulnerable with her. She didn’t know about my diapers yet, I didn’t think, but she at least knew that I had a little accident. That was more than enough knowledge. Suddenly, I was doubting every movement I made. Despite the fact that I wear diapers 24/7, it was like I forgot how to just walk normally. I was lumbering across the store in this obvious waddle and I felt like such a fool.

“I’d need to run to my car first,” I said to her. “My bag is in there and it has my, uh, things in it.”

“Of course,” she said, as she led me out of the building through a side door. She pointed around the corner. “Your car is right there. I’ll meet you here.”

It was a short distance to the corner, but it was a humiliating walk–my bloated and wet ass on display to her as I walked away. To her credit, she didn’t laugh or say anything. At least, not while I was within earshot. I cleared the corner and jogged to my car, grabbing my bookbag from the backseat.

[“Your diaper bag,” teased library-girl.

“Look, you all know what it is. Let me just tell the story.”]

I found her waiting in the same spot I left her, a warm and friendly smile still on her face. It put me at ease. I didn’t feel judged.

“I should probably introduce myself,” she said. “I’m Bonnie.”

“Drake,” I said. “Thank you, again, for helping me out.”

“It’s really not a problem,” she said. “I’d rather be helping you than watching the fuzzy TV in the back of the store while I wait for a customer.”

I was glad, I guess, to be providing a little more purpose to her day.

I followed her down a little hill to a house that I hadn’t seen from the road. It was a quaint little ranch house, mostly obscured by trees and shrubs.

“Usually my folks are around,” she said as we approached the house. “It’s their store and house, of course. But they like to do a lot of traveling in the summer in the RV, and someone’s got to look after the store…”

“And that’s you, I guess.”

“Seems like it.” She shrugged. “It could be worse. I could be stuck in the RV with my Dad after he eats a bean burrito.”

I shuddered a little, just imagining being trapped in a tight space with my own father’s noxious gasses.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking…” she said, a little trepidation in her voice. “Diapers?”

I sighed, feeling my cheeks glow a little. Maybe a few years ago I’d have been more humiliated, but I was kind of used to it at this point. Such is the way it goes when you have any sort of disability–people notice. And some people are curious to know more.

“How’d you guess?”

Bonnie shrugged. “Don’t be mad. But I’ve seen those kinds of wet spots before.”

I could predict how. “You’ve had some toddlers in your life before?”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t prod.”

“No, you’re okay,” I assured her. “It’s been a few years now, but I feel like I’m still getting used to it.”

“Well I’m not going to badger you with questions,” she said. “It’s not my business.”

(This has to be some sort of disability support group. Right?)

I always feel a little awkward in these sorts of interactions. Like, sure, I’m incontinent. But I also think I lean into my need for diapers a bit more than others in my situation. They’re probably not buying diapers with cute prints on them. Among other things. I was surprisingly fine with her knowing that I wore and needed diapers, but that’s where I wanted her information to end.

I found the inside of her family’s home to be as quaint as the outside. It felt warm and lived in. There was no effort for feng shui or a particular aesthetic. It was just a charming hodge podge of homemade crafts, faded photographs and worn furniture.

“So there’s the bathroom on this side of the hallway,” Bonnie said, pointing to a door on the right side of the hall that stretched before us. “And my bedroom is on the left. Feel free to use either room as you see fit. I’m not sure how much space you need.”

“I probably don’t need the bathroom,” I said. “I think I’ve got everything I need to clean up here in my bag.”

She shrugged. “Sure. Well, if there’s anything I can help with, let me know. Otherwise I’ll leave you to it.”

I chuckled, not sure if she realized what she was offering. “I…think I got this.”

“I won’t be too far away if you change your mind,” she said, that warm and friendly smile still on her face. “I mean it–anything you need help with.”

“Thank you,” I said, stepping into her bedroom. “I won’t be long.”

But my head was spinning as I closed the door behind me. Was I just hearing what I wanted to hear? Or was she just-about-literally asking if I wanted her to help me change my diaper?

Yes, of course. But only in my fantasies.

(Everytime I think I know what kind of story this is, he says something that sets me back at zero again.)

So, now I’m in this pretty girl’s bedroom with my pants pulled down and my sopping wet diaper hanging between my legs. In hindsight, I wished I had taken a better look around Bonnie’s room. I don’t think I would’ve wanted to snoop–but I realize now that I have very little recollection of what that room was like. I was just so focused on my diaper and the conversation I had just had with her.

I keep replaying her offer in my head, over and over. Was she serious? Would she actually be willing to help? No, I really didn’t want her to see the kind of diapers I was wearing. I didn’t want to expose myself as a big baby. I didn’t want to trouble her, and I was more than capable of changing my own diapers–lord knows I’ve changed enough without anyone’s help. But I was in the middle of nowhere, in a house I’d never be in again, with a girl I’d never see again. And…don’t we all just want our diapers changed by someone cute?

It almost felt like fate had laid out this ridiculously perfect situation. I’d have been a fool if I didn’t at least ask.

[“Don’t tell me you actually took her up on that offer,” library-girl said.

“Well,” chimed in a more soft-spoken male voice, “would he be telling this story if he didn’t?”

“Remember that it’s a story,” another feminine voice said. “I’m enjoying it, but I don’t know if I believe it’s true.”

“That was the assignment,” Drake quickly retorted. “A true personal story we never told anyone else before. You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Alright, c’mon,” a guy’s voice said. “I want to hear the rest of it.”]

I decided to do it. I tried to imagine what the worst case scenario would be, and the worst I could come up with was her kicking me out of her house. In which case, I’d jump in my car and find someplace else to change my diaper.

I cracked open her door and stuck my head out. “Bonnie?”

She stepped into view at the end of the hallway. “Everything okay?”

“I, uhm, was wondering how serious you were about lending me a hand.”

“What can I do for you?” she said, already walking down the hall towards me.

“I’m just not very good at, uh, putting these particular diapers on myself. I usually have another hand to help me out and I’m driving alone today and…”

“Not a problem,” she said, not missing a beat. “Let’s take a look at what we’re dealing with, hmm?”

She swung open her bedroom door and plowed into the room as I backed away from the door. There I was in all my humiliating glory–wearing just a t-shirt and an oversized soggy diaper with cartoon animal faces printed on it. This suddenly didn’t seem like all that good of an idea.

Bonnie was still smiling, but for the first time since I had encountered her in the store, it seemed like a different type of smile.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh my.”

I opened my mouth, but I had no idea what to say. Still, there was a lot of awkward silence to fill so I said the first thing I thought of: “I really…had an accident.”

“And are you also really 18 months old?”

(Oh, this is a twist… Is it wrong for me to be so invested?)

It took me a moment to process what she had just said–her teasing and sarcastic tone couldn’t have felt further from out of character. Not that I knew her all that well, but the character I had known thus far.

“Maybe I should go,” I said, ready to collect my pants and walk back to my car with my head hung in shame.

“I offered to help, didn’t I?” she asked. “I’m still willing.”

“Oh. But…”

“I have to say–you got me,” she said, shaking her head and laughing. “I really thought you were some poor guy with a little problem. I totally bought it.”

“No, wait. I really have a problem and–”

“It’s kind of clever. Has this little scheme ever worked before? Get someone to feel sorry for you having an accident, only to reveal that you’re actually one of those people with a diaper fetish?”

(Oh. I think I’m getting it now.)

“I’m not just one of those people,” I said. “Well, actually…I am. But, also–”

“Uh huh,” she said, arms crossed in front of her. “Well, then, should I take care of the little bay-bee?” The way she broke down the word ‘baby’ into two saccharine-sweet syllables still resonates in my mind today.

“I-I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling like I was pleading with her. “This totally went off the rails. I did have a genuine accident. I mean, yes, I like diapers and you were so perfect and…”

“Perfect? Tell me more about that.”

“Oh, well…”

“Come on, baby boy,” she cooed playfully. “What was that about ‘perfect?’”

I sighed, seeing no point in lying now. “I really did wet my pants. I do that. It happens a lot. I honestly just stopped here hoping to find a bathroom that I could change myself in, but then you were so nice to me and you offered me your room and you…made it sound like you might have been willing to help. And, you know, I guess I let that go to my head and I thought I’d…” I paused for a moment, realizing there was a better way to summarize what I had been feeling: “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

“He shoots,” she said. “He scores.”

“Wait. So…?”

“Why don’t you lie down on my bed.”

I sheepishly nodded and slunk over to the bed where I eased myself on top of it.

“Is this your diaper bag?” she asked, pointing to my backpack on the ground.

[Everyone else in the room laughed at this. Were I to guess, this was a common joke to make at Drake’s expense.]

“It is,” I said.

I’m not sure I can convey just how humiliating it was to have a stranger open my bookbag and begin to rifle through it–seeing things that haven’t been explained and went without context. I watched her eyes grow large as she took a quick perusal through the bag. She was seeing the extra diapers. The wipes. My pacifiers. A change of pants. Unscented baby powder. A tube of diaper rash ointment.

Hey, it happens sometimes.

(I’m willing to bet that Bonnie was as surprised as I am.)

“So you’re pretty much just a big ol’ baby, huh?” she asked.

I nodded, cheeks on fire.

“Can I see what this looks like in your mouth?” she asked, pulling out one of my pacifiers. It was custom made–this audacious looking thing with glittery gemstones on it and my name spelled out in beads.

I could’ve responded, but it didn’t seem to matter–she was already directing the pacifier towards my mouth. I obediently parted my lips and allowed her to slip it in.

“Well isn’t that just the cutest thing,” she giggled. “Let’s just leave that there, hm? Don’t worry, you’re in very good hands. I’ve changed plenty of diapers. None quite this big, but…well, it doesn’t seem all that different.”

This was happening. Maybe it wasn’t too late to stop it. I wonder if she’d have stopped me if I tried to get up. Could I have just stood up, grabbed my stuff, and left her house? I’ll never know, of course, because I chose to stay on her bed, mindlessly suckling on my pacifier as she began to untape my diaper.

“I guess I should consider myself lucky that you just wet yourself, right? Does the baby make stinky diapers too?”

I started to shake my head, but that transitioned into an uncertain nod. Ultimately, I just shrugged, unsure if I wanted to reveal all my secrets.

(Shit.)

She giggled again, seeming to come to her own conclusions based on my lack of commitment to a response.

“Aw, what’s this?” she asked, poking at my soft manhood. “You’re not excited to have your diaper changed?”

[“Soft manhood?” asked library-girl. “Sheesh.”

“Better than ‘flaccid cock,’” the other female voice said.

“Dude, you weren’t even hard for this?” asked one of the boyish voices. “Fuck, I’m hard right now.”

“Gross,” a few voices said at once.

“Well, maybe that’s one of the many reasons I’ve never told this story before,” Drake said.]

I didn’t say anything in response. Not that I could’ve while the pacifier was still in my mouth. Even if I could talk, I wasn’t sure what I could’ve said. Did it matter that I was too nervous to get an erection? Would it have any better to have been rock hard?

“That’s a shame,” she said to me. “If it was hard, I’d have had to do something about it. But this little thing?” She shrugged and laughed.

From there, it was just a diaper change. I’ve worn plenty of diapers over the years. Changed plenty of my own and had others change me a few times.

[“I’m responsible for a number of those changes,” added library-girl.]

(What?)

She knew what she was doing, and she effortlessly breeze through the diaper change like she had done it a million times before. The size of the diaper didn’t seem to slow her down. Off came the old one. She ran some wipes over my skin. A new diaper was slid beneath me and some fresh powder was applied before she sealed me up in it.

“Holy cow,” she finally said, holding the used diaper–now balled up into a neat little package–in her hand. “I cannot believe how heavy this thing is. You must’ve wet yourself, like, eight times.”

“Maybe just three,” I said, having plucked the pacifier out of my mouth.

“Well, you’re all done here, love. How about I get some clean pants back on you and send you on your way.”

“Yeah…”

“Where were you even headed?”

“My friend’s cabin,” I said. “Lake Lyric? I usually come a different way but I had to take some detours and…well, I’m not too sure how far I am from the place now.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Are you serious right now?”

“I mean…yeah?”

“Look out the window, silly.”

I rolled off of her bed and waddled to the window, unsure of what to expect. “Oh.”

Bonnie’s house was also on the shores of Lake Lyric. In fact, I was almost positive that I could make out the dock of my friend’s cabin on the opposite side of the lake from where I was now.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Well isn’t that convenient?” she hummed. “Hey, if you end up needing help with another diaper change, you really ought to come over and say hi again. I’ll be here everyday, you know.”

“Yeah, I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

I didn’t go back, for what it's worth. At night, sleeping on a cot in my pal’s cabin, I’d think about stopping by one more time on my way home. If for no other reason than to say hello. Or thanks. But I had been mortified enough for a summer.

I guess she’s still there, though. If I really wanted to, I suppose I could stop by her family’s little store when I go to the cabin again. Maybe I’ll be in need of a change again. Maybe she’ll be willing to lend a hand again.

(I can’t believe I’m feeling this way, but…that story made me feel something. I don’t know what that thing is. But. Yeah.)

- - -

“Maybe you’ll actually be hard this time,” one of the guys said. The group chuckled at this.

“I can’t believe you never told me about this,” library-girl said. “This really happened?”

“It amazes me too,” Drake said. “There are definitely times I wonder if I actually dreamed it.”

And then, Abba’s “Dancing Queen” started to play.

See, my mother and I have vastly different tastes in almost all things. She likes greek salads, and I like pizza. She likes Monk and I like Seinfeld. She likes Danielle Steele and I like Stephen King. But one of the few things we could ever agree on has been Abba. Maybe it’s because she raised me with Abba playing in the background for my entire childhood. She loved them. I loved them. And so “Dancing Queen” was her ringtone on my phone. The ringtone that was playing out loud because I didn’t think to mute my phone.

Because, like, why the fuck was my mother calling me this late at night?

“Is someone out there?” someone in the room said as I jammed on every button on my phone in an effort to silence it.

I could’ve run, or at least tried to. Knowing my luck, I’d have tumbled down the steps and they’d have caught up with me anyway.

“Uh, hi,” I said, cautiously peaking my head around the corner.

“Who are you?” asked one guy–the  one belonging to the voice of Drake.

“And how long have you been there?” asked a softer-spoken guy in glasses.

I took a deep breath, biding myself an extra second or two to think of how I’d answer their questions. “Well…to be honest, I heard that entire story.”

“Come the fuck on,” another guy said, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “We’re going to have to find another place to meet, aren’t we?”

“And we’re going to have to kill her,” a girl added.

“Nobody is going to kill anyone,” another girl said, her voice being that of the girl from the library. “Though, I’d have to say that I’m a little disappointed that you’d eavesdrop on a story that wasn’t intended for your ears.”

I felt my cheeks warm as I sighed. I couldn’t dispute that, and I felt a wave of shame course through my body.

“Look, I don’t mean any harm,” I said. “I didn’t know what it was you were doing up here and curiosity just got the best of me.”

“Yeah, but now you know too much,” said the girl with seemingly murderous tendencies.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I said. “I don’t even know anyone to tell, honestly. And…no offense, but who would believe a story like that.”

“She’s right,” said the guy with glasses. “I don’t even believe that story happened.”

Drake scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“What are we supposed to do with her?” asked murder-girl.

“You don’t have to do anything with me,” I said. “I swear, I’ll leave you all alone. I won’t come back. I won’t tell a soul. You’ll never see me again.”

“How do we know that you’re being honest?” asked Drake.

“I believe her,” said the girl from the library.

“Th-thank you,” I said to her. “But also? I…well, I don’t know what kind of group you have going on here. But I’m really curious about it.”

“As I’m sure you can guess,” the girl from the library said, “we have a pretty niche subject we talk about here. One that we’d be pretty hesitant to talk about with the likes of a complete stranger.”

“What if I said that I liked the story I just heard?” I asked. “What if it might have, uhm, woke something in me that I didn’t know existed before now?”

“We did say that we needed to replace Gina,” said the guy with the glasses.

“Yeah, but Gina was also an ABDL before she joined the group,” Drake responded. “We all were.”

“ABDL?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Drake said.

“I say we give her a chance,” said the girl from the library.

“That’s awfully trusting,” sneered the other girl in the group.

Drake sighed. “Yeah, but Mama’s also a pretty good judge of character.” He didn’t seem especially eager to admit that.

Mama?

This felt like my cue to introduce myself. Maybe being the first to offer that info would instill a little more trust in them. “My name is Sasha Jaymes. I’m a freshman, studying poli-sci. I don’t have any friends. I play the mandolin, but I left it at home. To be honest, I wish I didn’t.”

The girl that Drake had called ‘Mama,’ the girl I had heard in the library, stepped forward and shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Sasha. My name is Mariah, though most people call me Mimi. Well, except for everyone in this group–they just call me ‘Mama.’”

“Because she’s like a mother,” the guy with the glasses said. “And it, uh, sounds like Mimi.”

I was tempted to assure him that I got it, but I kept my mouth shut.

“I’m Neil,” glasses-guy said. “Artist. Writer. You play the mandolin? That’s pretty cool.”

“Don’t fall in love with him,” the other girl added, in a tone that seemed either playful or annoyed. “He’s as gay as they come.”

“Gay people deserve love too,” another male said from the back of the room.

“That’s not what I meant,” the girl retorted. I suspected there was a story there that I didn’t dare poke at right now.

“That’s Flo,” Mama said, pointing to the other girl. “I swear, she’s a sweetheart once you get to know her.”

“Please don’t spread lies about me.”

“I’m Chuck,” said the guy in the back of the room, raising his hand up for an extremely lackadaisical wave.

“Not that he’s any more special than the rest of us, but he’s pretty sensitive about his reputation on campus,” Mama said. “He’s on the football team, y’know?”

“You never saw me here,” said Chuck.

“I guess that just leaves me,” Drake said. “I’m Drake. Unlike the rest of these big babies, I’m the only one who actually needs diapers.”

“That doesn’t actually make you any more authentic,” Flo spat.

“Please,” Mama said, her glare bouncing between the two. “Not this again.”

“I guess you could say that Drake is the leader of our little club,” Neil said to me.

“Cult,” Flo said. Chuck laughed, but nobody else seemed to react to this.

“The founder,” Drake corrected. “Not necessarily the leader.”

“Oh right,” Mama said. “Maybe we skipped a very important introduction. Sasha, we are–together–the Stupid Baby Story Club.”

“I see,” I said. “And…what exactly is that?”

“Pretty much what you just heard,” Drake said.

“Eavesdropped,” added Flo.

“We all share a particular interest,” Drake continued, ignoring the outburst. “A kink. The kind of thing that we can’t talk about with anyone else, even our closest friends and partners.”

“Diapers,” I said.

“She’s a quick-learner,” laughed Chuck.

“We used to just talk about stuff,” Drake continued, brushing off yet another comment from the peanut gallery. “But then we started telling stories. And, well, that’s pretty much what we’ve stuck with.”

I had a thousand questions, of course, so I picked some from the top of my head: “And why is this club…stupid?”

Mama laughed. “You’ll find that we’re all fans of self-deprecating humor. I don’t remember how the ‘stupid baby’ joke started, but we’ve run with it.”

“And, uh, ABDL?”

“Adult baby,” said Neil. “And diaper-lover.”

“Oh.” It was so straightforward and self-explanatory that I had to laugh.

“So, what do you think?” asked Mama. “Does this actually seem like something you’d be interested in?”

“Well,” I said, pondering it as I responded, “it’s a lot to take in and think about. But there’s something to it that piques my interest.”

“Why don’t you come back next week,” Drake said. “Same time. Same place.”

“It’s my turn next week,” Chuck said. “And it’s a doozy.”

“But if you’re going to listen to our stories,” Flo added, “you’re going to have to have a story of your own.”

“That seems fair,” I said. “But…I’ve never worn a, uh, diaper before. I don’t even know where you get them. And I don’t know if…”

“Here,” Flo said, pulling something from her bag and tossing it to me.

It was a diaper. White with a cutesy pink print of bunnies on it. I figured adult diapers were big, but this was absurd. Plump and soft, I’d never felt anything like this before. I let my fingers squish into the plastic outer-shell of it, hearing the sound of the plastic crinkle against the padding within. I was already blushing, barely able to imagine myself wearing it, let alone having to later tell a story about it.

“Take your time,” Mama said. “You’ve got a few weeks before your story is due.”

“And if you don’t have a story by then?” added Flo. She mimed running a knife across her throat.

“Nobody is killing anyone,” Drake said. “But…yeah. If we’re going to let you hear our stories, it’d be good if you could eventually share one of your own. The theme for this current round of stories is ‘It’s Personal.’ Personal stories that we’ve never told anyone else before. Considering how new all this must be for you, that shouldn’t be so hard.”

I was tempted to mention that I already knew the theme, but instead I just nodded. “Thank you. I’m, uh, actually kind of excited about this.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Chuck said. “We’re not allowed to touch ourselves in these meetings.”

“Only because some of us were getting a little out of control,” Neil said, narrowing his eyes towards Chuck.

“I’m glad you came,” Mama said to me, her voice more directed at just me as the rest of the group broke into other conversations behind her. “We’ve needed some new blood around here.”

“Thank you for having me.”

“Look, if you need any help, or have any questions, let me give you my number. Honestly, any question at all. Just ask.”

Maybe I was jumping the gun a little, but I couldn’t help but feel that I had made my first friend while on campus. In the most unlikely of places.

It looked like I was going to be a stupid baby. It was too early to be sure, but nothing had felt right like this in a very long time.

I almost texted my mother on the walk back to my dorm room. I didn’t, of course. But if I had, I might’ve said something like: You were right. I think I might have found myself at college.