Doing Business: Memorandums, Episode 2 (Patreon)

Two: Your Friendly Neighborhood Pizza Girl

Neighborhood celebrities. Every area has a few–people that everyone knows or has encountered. Rarely have they accomplished anything exceptional–in fact, most times someone has the recognition to earn the title of ‘neighborhood celebrity,’ it’s for all the wrong reasons. Nuisances. Weirdos. People that everyone knows because everyone wants to avoid them.

That said, I feel pretty confident about two things. First, I’m a local celebrity.

Second? This might be the rare exception in which I’m not well-known because of my worst traits. Instead, it’s because I deliver pizza.

Look, this is the city–there’s a lot of pizza places to choose from. There’s like 2 or 3 options on every block. Hell, I heard there’s a lady over on fourteenth who you can call for pizza and she just makes it in her basement and has her husband deliver it. Seems kind of sketchy, honestly–our shop has a hard enough time avoiding the wrath of the city health department.

But our shop–Toretti’s? Damn-near legendary pizza shop. The place has been around for 60-something years, I think. New shops come and go all the time, but ours is in the same place as it's always been, and most would consider it to be an essential fixture of the neighborhood.

Pizza Girl, that’s what they call me. It makes me sound like a superhero, you know? I sometimes try to imagine what that would even look like. Did I shoot pizzas from my hands? Could I just eat an infinite number of pizzas? Was I able to settle any dispute with just a hot pie? I don’t love being called Pizza Girl–nobody should have their identity reduced to just a description of their job–but I suppose I’d rather that than some slur.

If we’re being honest, I know why I have a reputation. I’m a girl. A cute one at that–or so I’m told. Mackie has been delivering pizzas for Toretti’s for 15 years, and nobody knows–or cares–who he is. People want the pretty girl to deliver their pizza. Seriously, that’s what they say. They literally call and request for me to be their delivery girl.

Mackie says I let the attention go to my head. I say he’s just jealous.

Mackie also worries about me a lot. He says that it’s dangerous for a girl to be going into strange buildings by herself. I guess I can see his concern–the lonely pizza girl stumbling into some decaying apartment complex does seem like the beginning of a good movie. But I’ve been doing this for a while, and I’m still alive.

Besides, I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Never had to use it.

And while I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I was in danger, that doesn’t mean that I haven’t seen some weird shit. Because, let me tell you: I’ve seen some weird shit.

You name it, and I’ve probably seen it. I’ve delivered pizzas to orgies. I’ve delivered pizzas to a room full of people wearing weird animal costumes. About once a week I get a secondhand buzz from delivering pizza to a place where thick clouds of smoke wash over me when the door opens.

Sure, I’ve been hit on and flirted with. Rarely is it that hard to escape with just a variation of ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ Sometimes I get handed a beer. Or a joint. Once I got handed a tab of acid–I truly regret handing it back, in hindsight. Once I got pulled into a Street Fighter III tournament. I didn’t win, but I think I did alright.

Mackie swears that, once, he had a three-way with two ladies he dropped some pizza off to. I guess I believe that it’s possible–I’ve been solicited enough. But have you seen Mackie? I’d have loved to see what these supposed ladies looked like.

The weirdest delivery I’ve ever made? I’m not entirely sure what that would be. I mean, witnessing an orgy taking place while you wait for a naked man to find his wallet so he can pay you for a stack of pizza is pretty weird.

But you know what else is weird? The interaction I find myself thinking about pretty often?

Diaper Boy.

I think I’ve delivered there a few times. If not Diaper Boy’s apartment, at least other apartments in his building. But twice now, I’ve delivered to his apartment, only to find him greeting me while wearing a…diaper.

I’m not going to pretend to be an expert on the medical needs of adults who need diapers. But I’d imagine that if you were a guy–about my age–with some sort of issue with incontinence, you would be doing everything in your power to not reveal that to other people.

Sometimes you just know when something is…off. This guy–Diaper Boy? He’s off. I swear, he wants me to see him in his diaper.

It’s a funny thing to keep thinking about. All the strangeness I’ve seen in this neighborhood, and the thing that’s stuck in my head is the sight of this scrawny boy in his diaper.

He’s not alone, either. Both times I’ve delivered to his place, as he stands there in his diaper, I can hear the giggles and chatter of other people in the apartment. The scene just makes no sense to me. Are they also in diapers? Or do they just like to torment this guy by making him answer the door in a diaper?

I’ve never thought about them before–but I think about diapers all the time now.

I guess I knew there was a kink for that sort of thing. Everything’s a kink to someone, right? I saw an article the other day about people who get off from getting hit in the face with pies. It makes no sense to me…but good for them, I guess. Prior to encountering Diaper Boy, diapers meant about the same to me as getting hit in the face with a pie–too far beyond my comprehension to really have any sort of opinion on it.

But now I’ve seen this guy in his diapers, and I’m curious. What makes a guy like that tick? What is it about diapers that he likes? Does he want to be coddled and babied? Or does he just want to be humiliated? Or is it something else altogether?

- - -

“What would you say if I wore a diaper?”

Josh scoffs. “Like…because you had to?”

“Because…I wanted to?”

I like Josh, though not enough to ask him to be my boyfriend. We’re just friends. Friends who fuck more times per week than friends of mine who are in committed relationships.

I kind of like the arrangement we have for what it is. No strings or emotions. Just physical needs being met. It also allows for me to be a little more open. I can ask him about things–like diapers–without worrying that much about scaring him off.

“Paige, do you…want to wear diapers?”

I shrug. “I dunno if I do or not. But, like, what if? If I showed up at your place tomorrow in a diaper, what would you say?”

“I’d say, uh, ‘take off your diaper and come fuck me in the bedroom.’”

“You wouldn’t think it’s weird?”

“Oh, it’d be real fucking weird.”

“But you’d still have sex with me.”

“You’re not asking me to put a diaper on, are you?” he asks.

“Do you want to wear a diaper?”

“No.”

I laugh. “Okay, then no–I’m not asking you to put a diaper on.”

“Are you asking me to, like, change your diaper or something? Do I have to…interact with it?”

“Hmm,” I respond, considering his question carefully. “I guess you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to...”

“But?”

“But… Well, I guess I’m wondering what else I’d want to do if I was wearing a diaper.”

“So,” he says, “to be clear–you want to wear a diaper?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Why?”

Great question, and one I haven’t been able to answer myself just yet. Do I want to wear a diaper? Yes, I think I do. Why? I couldn’t tell you. Curiosity, if I was to take a guess.

I’m curious about a lot of things. I’m curious about what it’d feel like to jump into a volcano, too. And I probably won’t ever do that. But diapers? Well, for one, they won’t melt my body. Also, maybe the idea of them just scratches a weird itch, so far in the back of my consciousness that I wasn’t even aware of it until I found something to scratch it with.

Is it the taboo of diapers that I was attracted to? Or was there some dormant part of myself that wanted to explore what it meant to be babied? Humiliated? Both?

So I want diapers, I know that much. What comes next is beyond me.

“Just buy them,” Josh says when I tell him about what’s on my mind. “You keep talking about diapers, but I don’t think you’re going to know if you like them or not until you actually buy them.”

“Where do you even buy adult diapers?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Anywhere, I think. Like, you could go to the grocery store and buy them.”

“I guess,” I say, picturing Diaper Boy in my mind. “But not these diapers.”

“What diapers are you even talking about then? Because I’m pretty sure you can’t fit into, like, baby diapers.”

“Maybe I’ll know them when I see them.”

- - -

Later, at the third grocery store I had visited, I still hadn’t found what I was looking for. I still didn’t actually know what I wanted, but I knew it wasn’t the adult diapers I was seeing. Diaper Boy’s had been plump. Thick and crinkly. They weren’t something you wore if you were trying to hide the fact that you needed a diaper–they were something you wore because you loved wearing diapers.

Or so I assumed. It would’ve been funny if I had gotten it all wrong. I could just see it: finally working up the courage to confront Diaper Boy to ask him where he got his diapers–because I wanted to try some for myself–only for him to break into tears because he wears specialty diapers because of a severe issue with incontinence.

But, I doubted that. There wouldn’t have been all that giggling coming from his apartment if he was actually sensitive about his need for diapers.

I delivered another pizza in his apartment building last week. Just to see what would happen, I knocked on Diaper Boy’s door. Another guy opened the door. I apologized and said that I had the wrong door. Probably for the best. I had no idea what I’d say if Diaper Boy had actually answered.

“Uh, hi. Where d’ya get yer diapers from?”

But, when in doubt, go online. It only took me about ten minutes to find the big white diapers I wanted. They were either the exact same ones that Diaper Boy was wearing, or close enough.

- - -

“And what are you going to do with them once you get them?” asks Josh when I tell him about my online order. It’s one of the rare occasions that we’re hanging out with each other outside of our apartments. With clothes on. We’re getting waffles, because I wanted some.

“Wear them, I guess. See how they feel.”

“Are you going to, like, piss yourself?”

I shrug. “Haven’t really thought that far ahead. I guess I should at least try, right?”

He lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Really?”

“Do you think that’s gross?”

“I guess it’s not that weird,” he says. “People like golden showers and stuff. It’s just kind of weird.”

“It’s just pee,” I say. “I pee in a diaper and…I just take a shower.”

“And, uh, do you think you’re going to drop a big dump in your pants too?” He’s got that smirk on his face that I hate. That sarcastic one when he’s trying to be a smart ass.

Another question I don’t have an answer for yet. But I decide to test the water and see what his reaction would be: “Yup. I think I’ll probably try that too.”

This time, he wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Count me out.”

“I didn’t ask you to join me.”

“You’d really do that, Paige? Poop in a diaper like a toddler?”

I shrugged. “What if I did? It’s just poop, right? It all washes off.”

He shook his head again. “Nope. Not for me. I don’t think 100 showers would make me feel clean after that.”

“So you’re saying that if I do decide to fill up a diaper…”

“Just don’t tell me,” he says. “I don’t want to know.”

- - -

My diapers are waiting for me in front of my door after a seemingly never-ending shift delivering pizzas on a Friday night. It’s a little after 1:00 AM, and I really should be jumping in bed, but I catch a second wind–honestly my third or fourth wind, at that point–and decide that I need to try them in that instant.

I have no clue what I’m doing, but that almost feels preferable. I don’t want to be a diaper expert–I want to stumble my way through it and find my footing later. After tearing the packaging open and holding one of the giant disposable diapers in my hand–feeling incredibly thick in just their folded form–I’m filled with this childlike glee that I hadn’t felt about anything in a long time. Do you know what I mean? That feeling of excitement and wonder for something completely new?

Yeah, I guess it’s silly to feel that way about diapers, of all things. But why the fuck not? I have no regrets and hangups about it–I’m ready to embrace this weirdness.

I unfolded the diaper and tossed it on top of my bed and lowered my naked body on top of it. It was a little more intuitive than I guessed it would be–once I figured out that the tapes needed to be in the back, I was able to figure the rest out easily enough.

Voila–I was diapered. For the first time in a long time. I had to fight the playful urge to send my mother a selfie of my diapered ass via a text message. Hi Mom. Did you ever think you’d see me in one of these again? I spared her the heart attack and tossed my phone across the room, just to be extra-sure that I wouldn’t take any photos that I’d regret when I was less exhausted.

For a brief second, I was a little underwhelmed. This is it, huh? It didn’t feel all that special. Not that I knew what to expect–nobody ever said that this was going to feel like heaven on earth. I had been the one who got it in my head that this was going to be some sort of wild experience.

It wasn’t until I got up and started to walk around that the reality of the diaper’s existence began to set in. The way I could feel its bulk between my legs. The way it crinkled and rustled as I moved. The way the smooth texture of its plastic shell felt against my fingers when I pressed into the fluffy padding.

I was beginning to see the appeal.

I wished that Josh was here to see it. I know he said he didn’t care, but maybe actually seeing the diaper on me would change his mind. I mean, I looked pretty fucking cute in it. The diaper could’ve been applied a little better, I think. But…maybe he could’ve done that for me?

Maybe I didn’t actually want Josh. I wanted someone to be there. Some fictional somebody who would call me a good girl for wearing my diaper. Some fictional somebody who would call me a bad girl for needing a diaper at my age.

Ooh. Tingles. Maybe there’s something to this humiliation stuff?

I’m not a patient person. I want to experience everything and I want to explore it now. Alas, my third or fourth wind was coming to an end and it didn’t look like a fifth was in the cards. I’d go to bed in just my diaper, lightly caressing the thick padding between my legs until I drifted off to sleep.

- - -

I couldn’t tell you exactly what I had been dreaming about, but it had something to do with diapers, and it had me waking up all hot and bothered. The first thing I was aware of when I woke was the wetness between my legs. I instinctively reached down the length of my body to feel myself, only to have my fingertips make contact with the thick diaper instead.

Oh yeah…

There, in the quiet seclusion of my bed, I decided to push my experimentation a little further. It was surprisingly hard to convince my body to pee while I wasn’t sitting on a toilet–as a lifetime of habit had trained me to do. But with a few deep breaths and a concerted effort to relax my body, I was able to make it happen. Instantaneously, I felt a shameful pleasure unlike anything I had felt before. My stream was instantly absorbed by the diaper, which then grew heavier and more dense between my legs. My fingers remained perched on the front of the padding, feeling it swell and warm as I pissed myself.

I wish you were here. I had no idea who ‘you’ was. Josh, maybe. Some sort of nameless caregiver who would swoop in and change my diaper for me after making a big fuss over how wet and naughty I was.

As good as it felt to press against the diaper with my hand, I couldn’t resist the temptation to just slide my fingers into the wet garment so that I could pleasure myself.

Climaxing in a wet diaper? What a bad girl.

I was going to tell Josh about this later, for sure. Maybe he’d be curious enough to want to see it for himself. Maybe he’d even want to participate. But it was a win-win, because if he gave a disapproving head-shake, that’d still be something I could use to touch myself to later.

The next step in this little adventure feels like it has to be me wearing diapers out in public. Maybe I’ll pick a slower night–a Tuesday, perhaps–and give them a little test run while I’m out and about.

I have to be careful, of course. Being a local celebrity and all, it wouldn’t be too hard for me to end up developing a new reputation as the local Diaper Girl. I dunno, it’s kind of cute sounding? But I think I’d rather that reputation be completely localized to just my bedroom.

Oh, and another naughty thought: Next time I had to deliver pizza to Diaper Boy’s apartment? Wouldn’t he be surprised when he saw that I was wearing a diaper too?