Dear Shania [Tier 2 and 3] (Patreon)

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Dear Shania,

A curious thing happened to me this week, and it encouraged me to finally sit down and write to you–something I’ve been putting off doing for, oh, at least ten years now.

See, early on Monday morning, I got a text message from a number that I didn’t recognize. It simply stated “Hi.” Now, as I’m sure you know, we live in an age where you can’t really trust anything. I get these fraudulent phone calls and texts all the time, as I’m sure you do too–shysters who pretend they know you, or insist that you know them, but really they’re just trying to sell you something. Or, worse, they’re trying to steal from you.

So I see this text message–”Hi.”–and I figure I’ll ignore it. An hour passes, and the same number texts me again: “Is this Cooper?”

Interesting, right? Whoever, or whatever, is texting me knows my name. I’m still convinced it’s a scam or hoax, but I’m at least a little curious now.

So I write back: “Who is this?”

If it’s a legitimate person, then they can confirm their identity first–and only then will I confirm mine.

A short time later, they respond: “I’m an old friend of yours. From back in the days of Marconi’s.”

Admittedly, I was a little aggravated at this response. I asked a very simple question, and while they’ve answered it, it wasn’t a very good answer. Do they have any idea of how many people I knew back in the Marconi’s days?

But, too, there’s a sudden burst of excitement within me. There’s plenty of people from that era of my life that I’d love to hear from. People who I’ve tried my hardest to track down and reach out to, but have been unsuccessful.

Any idea who I might be referring to?

So I shake off my frustration and I’m feeling a little giddy. Please oh please, I tell myself. Please let it be who I hope it is.

But I refuse to get my hopes up too much. I need to be careful. I need to be sure. Like I said, I knew plenty of people from when I worked at Marconi’s.

I start small: “This is Cooper, yes.”

They respond: “I just thought you’d like to know that you’re on my mind from time to time.”

I’ll be honest with you, Shania. Regardless of who this person was, it was a nice feeling to hear that someone still thought of me. Someone who I had been disconnected from for some time.

I say: “I’d love to know whose mind I’ve been on?”

The response: “I’m disappointed that you didn’t just immediately know who it was. Were there THAT many people who’d still be thinking about you?”

They quickly followed this up with an “LOL.”

Now, I tell you, I only had one name in mind at this point. One person that I thought it’d be. One person that I wanted it to be.

They sent another text: “It’s me - Jenn.”

My heart sunk in my chest. Disappointment washed over me.

See, I was deceived. Perhaps not entirely on purpose–I knew Jenn because I worked at Marconi’s, but she wasn’t an employee there. Her texts had led me to believe that she was someone I worked with there.

Like, you know, the person that I desperately wished was texting me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I liked Jenn. Time was, I might have even used a stronger word to describe how I felt about her. But those days were long past, and things hadn’t exactly ended in the best way. Maybe, had she framed her initial messages to me a little differently–and I hadn’t gotten my hopes up–I’d have even been happy to have heard from her.

But at this moment, she was the very last person in the world I wanted to be talking to. I said nothing. I walked away from my phone to get some fresh air and a drink of water.

I can’t even explain it that well–this despair that I felt in my heart. There had been this brief moment where it seemed like everything I had ever wanted was being offered to me on a silver platter–only for it to be swatted from my hand a moment later.

You understand why, yes? You realize who I wanted it to be?

I wanted it to be you.

As best as I can recall, I never got to say goodbye to you. I suppose that ‘goodbye’ was just implied in those last few times we spent time together. It was no secret that I was going through some turbulence in my life–what, with the breakup and all.

I remember that last night that I saw you rather vividly. We went back to your apartment after work. You said you had alcohol, but all you really had was this enormous bottle of pinkish wine. Strawberry Moscato, I believe it was–a hellish concoction. But we drank it out of plastic tumblers on your couch. You made us watch a movie too…though if I’m being honest, I can’t recall the movie. Something with guns and action? I want to say you had it on DVD–which seems much funnier now than it probably did at the time. I mean, who buys DVDs anymore, right?

We sat right next to each other. Your hand brushed against my thigh. You apologized like it was an accident–but when I told you that it was nothing to be sorry for, you just set your hand atop my thigh like you had wanted it there the whole time.

I suppose you remember what happened next, yes? Your hand was exploring my leg, and you found something between my thighs that you weren’t expecting. It crinkled. It made my face turn a bright red.

You asked: “Is that what I think it is?”

Now, I often wonder if you would’ve been able to guess what it was if we had never had any of our late-night conversations in the weeks that preceded this hang-out. Do you remember those nights? We’d be exhausted as we dragged ourselves around the restaurant, cleaning up and putting things away. Then, if we were the last ones left to lock up, we’d open a bottle of the cheap wine and slide into a booth and gossip for an hour or two.

We talked about a lot of things, right? And the more we did it, the heavier those conversations seemed to get.

You told me about your ex–things, you said, that nobody else knew.

And so I thought that if you could trust me with that, I could trust you with my own secrets. When I told them to you, you listened. You never once scoffed, laughed, or showed any disappointment. To this day, I’d say you were the most supportive person I’ve ever talked to about this side of myself.

I suppose that’s what made it so easy, when you asked your question as we sat together on the couch in your apartment, for me to tell you the truth.

I was wearing a diaper.

I’m sure you remember what happened next–or at least, I hope that you do. But I’d like to tell you how I remember it, and maybe you can tell me if you recall it differently.

You asked me if you could see it. I was dumbstruck, and I babbled like an idiot for a minute as I tried to figure out how to respond to that question. I’ll never forget your laugh–sure, you were having a little fun at my expense, but there was so much warmth in your amusement that I still felt safe. So, I said that I would show you.

I stood up in front of you, my heart pounding in my chest. You assured me, multiple times, that I shouldn’t be so nervous. But how could I not be? I was showing you something that I had never shown anyone else in my entire life up until that point. Something that I knew the rest of society would judge me harshly for.

But you sat there, calm and with a smile on your face, and you told me to take my time.

I told myself: It’s one thing for her to be accepting of the CONCEPT of an adult wearing diapers. But wait until she actually sees one on me.

You didn’t laugh when you saw it. In fact, you said: “It’s very cute.” Oh Lord, you have no idea how intoxicating that was to hear. Still, to this day, I think about you saying that and it fills my cheeks with warmth.

“So there you go,” I said. “This is me. In a diaper.”

You patted the seat on the couch next to you. “Come sit down,” you said. I went to pull my pants back up again, but you stopped me. You said: “Why don’t you just take your pants off instead?”

I was flabbergasted! You wanted me to sit next to you, with my diaper completely exposed and out in the open? I did it, of course, but I couldn’t get over the fact that this was actually happening.

I’m tempted to say that we tried to continue watching the movie–but I think it’s safe to say that neither of us were paying attention to it.

(Also, was Bradley Cooper in that movie–whatever it was? I remember us talking about him that night, and I can’t think of any other reason we would’ve done that.)

Your hand was on my thigh again. I put my hand on top of yours. You started to slide your hand towards my diaper, and I didn’t stop you. In fact, I think I helped guide your hand there.

You leaned in close to me, your lips close to my ear, and whispered: “How often do you use these?”

“Often,” I told you. It was embarrassing to admit, but I saw no reason to lie.

“And then what?” you asked. “Do you just…sit in it?”

“Sometimes,” I said.

“Do you…touch yourself?”

“Sometimes.”

You made a little satisfactory hum–do you remember that? This cute little “Hmm,” like my answer was incredibly intriguing to you.

“You can use it here if you want,” you said to me. At that moment, you pulled the bottle of Strawberry Moscato off of the end table and replenished my tumbler. “I promise I don’t mind.”

Well, wouldn’t you know, I did have need of some relief. I had been wearing the diaper for a few hours by that point, and I hadn’t used it–or a toilet–since putting it on. Your words granted me the permission that I needed–and I almost immediately started wetting myself.

Your hand stayed on my diaper while I did it. You stared at me–looking right into my eyes as it happened. Your eyes were so big. You were so excited. “It’s…getting so wet! It’s swelling! It feels…heavier. Thicker.” Your words were like music to my ears.

I tried, again, to just watch the movie. I didn’t want to watch it–there were plenty of other things I’d have rather been doing–but I just wasn’t sure what else to do.

You, on the other hand, knew all the things you wanted to do. Your hand remained on my diaper, stroking and squeezing the plump and bulbous front.

“You’re never going to be potty trained at this rate,” you whispered to me. Surely you felt how hard my manhood was inside of my diaper at that point, yes?

I felt helpless and paralyzed. So long as your hand was on my diaper, I felt unable to move. I was at your mercy–not that I was complaining. If you had kept your hand there for the next ten years…well, maybe I’d still be on that couch today.

“Does it feel good?” you asked. “Do you like sitting in a wet diaper?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

You asked the same question again, though it was a little different: “Do you like sitting in your own filth?”

Now that just sounded naughty.

“I…do, yes.”

You did that little hum again. “Hmm.” You seemed pleased with my answer.

Now, in your next question… Well, I’ll just repeat it as I remember it: “Do you soil yourself?”

There’s a lot of ways to refer to the act of defiling one’s diaper with one’s bowels. Pooping. Shitting. Messing. Dirtying. Loading. Crapping. But soiling? Maybe it was just a matter of how you asked it–but I’ll never hear that word without thinking of you and the way you asked that question. Soil. Still, it sends thrills up my spine when I think about it. Soil. It just sounds so…foul. LIke it’s the worst thing you can do to yourself–soiling your pants.

But, again, I needed to be honest with you. “Yes.”

“Do you like that?”

I sighed, my head swimming. “Yes.”

“You can do that here if you want,” you said.

“But…”

“Trust me when I say that. I mean it.”

I wanted to protest a little more. I wanted to remind you what a soiled diaper entailed–the lingering scents that would probably be around long after I departed for the evening. I kept my mouth shut, however. You made yourself perfectly clear, and I had no reason to doubt you.

But I did have one question for you: “Why are you so okay with this?”

Do you want to hear something funny? I cannot, for the life of me, remember how you answered that question. I remember that you said something to me–and I remember it making complete sense to me. I remember your hand squeezing my diaper while you talked. I remember my inner-ear vibrating as you talked directly into it. But I just don’t remember what you said to me.

I remember (and believe me, it still makes my cheeks blush when I think of it) your hand remaining on my diaper until I ended up, well…milked? In hindsight, it’s so obvious that it was going to happen, but I think we were both so surprised when it did. I recall you looking at me with big eyes and an even bigger smile. You said something like: “You really like diapers, huh?”

After that? I don’t know. We cuddled? Finished the movie (whatever movie it was. There were explosions and fights that we had no context for.)? All I knew was that, eventually, I was back in my own bed again.

I had no clue what to expect after that. When we saw each other at work in the days that followed, would we acknowledge it? Pretend that it didn’t happen? Would things be so awkward that we’d witness the gradual destruction of our friendship?

Well, it did end up being a little awkward for a while, didn’t it? We were polite enough–I think we just didn’t know where the other was at. We were feeling around for a while, trying to figure out how to proceed. All I wanted was for us to figure out how to get past this awkwardness, because I was sure something good was on the other side.

Apparently, you had a similar thought, because you came to me about two weeks later–cornering me in the walk-in freezer. Do you remember that? You followed me in, closed the door, and just unleashed. I don’t recall your exact words, but I remember the way it all sounded–a torrent of quickly-spoken confessions. You said you liked me. You said you liked my diapers. You said that you thought about them all the time. You told me that you wanted to see me in a diaper again. You wanted to change me. Bathe me. Play with me. You asked if I wanted the same things.

I said that I did.

You told me to wear a diaper to work tomorrow. If I had time, I’d have said how nervous the idea of that made me–but I didn’t get the chance as you were already out the door again. My face was so red and warm that I had completely forgotten the fact that I was still in the freezer.

It was probably for the best that I didn’t have a chance to talk to you more about it. Given more time, I’d have probably talked both of us out of the idea. Instead, I spent the rest of the day convincing myself that this was actually a good idea.

And I did wear a diaper to work the next day, didn’t I? You knew it right away when you slapped my bottom as I walked through the back door into the kitchen.

It’s all kind of a blur from there, isn’t it? Well, maybe it’s not for you. But from my perspective–those few weeks play out like a montage when I look back at them. The playful smirks and comments when we were at the restaurant. The way I’d be shaking with excitement when I would drive to your apartment after finishing a shift at work. The way you’d check my diapers after you closed your apartment door. All those times you stuck your face in my diaper and took a good long sniff. You bought baby spoons and fed me tiny little spoonfuls of pudding or ice cream while I sat on your lap. You playfully suggested, one night, that you should burp me–only for the both of us to giggle uncontrollably when you did, in fact, summon a belch from me after a few firm pats to my back. The first time you gave me a bath. The first time you changed my diaper. The time I was squatting on top of your bed and you sat behind me–pulling open the back of my diaper so that you could watch me pushing a stinky load into it. The time you put so much baby powder in my diaper that everytime I sat down, little white clouds would puff out from the back of it. The times I’d wet myself at the restaurant and you’d do these quick little diaper checks in the supply closet. The time you asked me if I needed a diaper change, not realizing that the kitchen manager was just feet from me–and the way you blushed and tried to convince him that it was just a weird in-joke that we had.

And the sex. The sex was good, wasn’t it?

Maybe, at about this point, I should bring up Jenn again. I mentioned her in the beginning of this letter–she who sent me the text message that would eventually inspire me to write to you. You might actually remember her if you saw her face–I think the two of you had spoken a few times.

She was a regular at Marconi’s. She’d usually hang out at the bar, though she’d occasionally bring a friend or a potential-suitor and get a booth. I’m tempted to say that we ‘hit it off,’ but I’m not even sure that we did. We were just always at the same place at the same time. I’d see her once or twice a week, and so we’d make small talk or crack a few jokes. Do that long enough and suddenly it seems like you know someone.

Well, she knew I was single, as was she–chronically so. One night, after being served a few cocktails, she started hinting around the fact that she wouldn’t mind seeing me after my shift was over. We could ‘hang out’ at her place, or whatever. She wasn’t being very subtle. And I, being a man-of-a-certain-age, wasn’t able to play it all that cool. I agreed to this proposal.

It’s probably not wise to go into too much detail, but I’ll say that it was well worth my time to hang out with Jenn. We ended up hooking up a few times. She brought an experience to the table (and the bed, and the couch, and the ironing table, and the wall of her hallway) that, to this day, has taught me everything I’ll ever need to know about pleasing someone.

(So…maybe you owe her a ‘thank you’ as well?)

But when I worked up the courage to tell her about diapers, she seemed completely indifferent to it. She wasn’t disgusted, but she wasn’t into it either. The best I got was an indifferent shrug. “Wear them if you want,” she’d say. “But don’t ask me to, like, change you or anything.”

As good as the sex was, it wasn’t enough for me. I wanted–no, needed–to have my other desires acknowledged too. And I just couldn’t get that with Jenn.

All of this happened before I told you about my diapers. In fact–her indifference to them might have been partially responsible for me opening up to you in the first place. In a lot of ways, I credit Jenn for setting off the chain of events that would lead to all the fun that you and I had together.

(Maybe you owe her two notes of appreciation?)

Alas, our golden age wasn’t meant to last forever, was it? The fault for that was entirely on me. We never really talked about the other half of my life, did we? You knew the version of me that you went to work with. The version of me whose diapers you changed. But then I went home, to a world that you were shut out of.

I lived with my partner, see. I suppose, technically, we were ‘together,’ though in no official capacity. We were only engaged to be married, and it was already clear that no wedding would actually be taking place. We were deep in the process of separating. Unwinding. Disconnecting. Dissolving. It was a tumultuous time for us, as every moment we spent together was spent arguing and bickering.

Now, look, I’m not proud of my behavior. You could make a pretty good case for me being an asshole–carrying out not just one, but two affairs while still living with my partner. And without her knowing.

For a time. She would eventually find out, but only because I became careless.

I was sleeping on the couch most nights, and I’d get home long after she went to bed. Most mornings, she’d be gone to work herself before I even woke up so there’d be stretches of days where we just wouldn’t see each other at all. My routine, on the nights I got home from being at your place, was to ditch the diaper and take a shower to get off any lingering traces of baby powder (or soiled diapers). But as time went on, it got harder to convince myself that those steps were necessary. I didn’t see my ex most days, and so she wasn’t likely to ever see my diapers. Besides, I didn’t want to take my diapers off. I wanted to wake up in the morning all wrapped up in the same diaper you put on me the night before.

That was how she found out. She happened to poke her head into the living room one morning, only to find me snoring on the couch without any sheet or blanket to cover up my soaking wet diaper.

Things were already bad, and they got worse. Now, on top of just being a bad partner, I was also a pervert. She told everyone that she could. She told her family and her friends. She told my family. She told my friends. Some of those friends were people who we either worked with at Marconi’s, or knew people who worked there.

Really, this wasn’t as apocalyptic as it sounds that it might be. The people who were the most upset about it were the people who already didn’t like me. The rest of the reactions were mixed between: “That sounds like bullshit to me” and “This sounds like it’s none of my business.”

The problem was, that once a story like that gets out, you lose control of it. And if I knew the employees at Marconi’s–and I thought that I did–I knew it’d only take a day or two, tops, before everyone there heard some variation of the rumor that I was waddling around in diapers while pissing myself.

It’d have been true, of course, but only you and I knew that before.

I wasn’t thinking about you when I unceremoniously quit via a phone call one Saturday morning soon after. I was in survival mode at that point, and I had become almost entirely focused on just getting through each day with as much of my dignity intact as possible. I needed to find a new place to live. A new job. I needed to tie up all the loose ends of my old life and move forward.

The second that Marconi’s was out of sight, it was out of mind. And as much as I’d hate to admit that you were out of mind with it, the sad reality was that I just lost track of a lot of things while my life changed.

I went back to Marconi’s a year or so after all that. Back when I worked there, I took for granted how fast the staff turned over. People came and went all the time, but it just felt more gradual. But coming back now, it was like an entirely different restaurant. I didn’t recognize most of the servers. I didn’t know the bartender. The chef back at the pizza oven–I didn’t know him either.

And you weren’t there. I asked, too. They said they didn’t know who you were. I saw Nick (remember him?) and he said you had left around the same time I did. He knew you got another job, but wasn’t sure where.

But do you know who I did see while I was there? Jenn was there, in her usual spot at the bar. She was having the same conversations with the new bartender that she used to have with me when I was there.

We talked. We caught up a little. And…well, we later met up at my new apartment and we caught up there too.

(Just saying, I’ve learned a few new things…)

Slowly, but surely, things started to change for the better. A new relationship took root in my life. I finished school. I got a new job–one that I actually enjoy.

The diapers? I mean, one never stops loving the things that turn them on, I don’t think. But they’re not as much of a part of my life anymore. My wife (yes, we got hitched a few years ago) has a mild interest in them, and we break them out every few months–but otherwise I’ve kind of drifted away from that whole scene. Hell, now that I’m writing this, I’m realizing that it might have been a whole year since the last time I wore one.

Maybe, if Jenn hadn’t reached out to me again, I’d have gone through the rest of my life being content with the way things were.

But then I got her text. And that desire I felt in my chest–up until I discovered that it was her texting me and not you–and I realized that all I had been doing was repressing myself.

I want you, Shania. I want you in my life again. I want you so badly, and it’s all I can think about anymore.

I know what you’re thinking–or, at least, I know what I’d be thinking if the shoes were on the other feet: Cooper, you just miss my acceptance of your diapers.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I didn’t long for the feeling of your hand on my diaper. Or if I’d give just about anything to see your face between my legs, taking in a long and slow sniff of my pissy accident. Or how often I daydream about you changing my diaper.

But I also think about everything else: Your coy smiles. The sound of your voice in my ear. Your unwavering kindness and support. The way you gripped my hand. The little snacks you’d bring to work and share with me.

I don’t even know how that would work! I’m married now, and I don’t think there’s any hope of a conversation with my wife where she agrees to share me with you.

Assuming, of course, you want me too.

Do you think of me? Do you miss the way things were? Do you ever think about how you’d be willing to just drop it all for a chance to experience that again?

A lot of time has passed, I know this. You’re probably married yourself now, yes? Kids, maybe?

I spent a lot of time looking for you. But, can I tell you something rather embarrassing? (Please, promise you won’t be upset.)

I could not, for the life of me, remember your last name. We just…never needed that information when we worked together, right? It’s not like we were in an office and I had to send you emails. I had your first name, and I had your phone number, and that was all I ever needed.

And then, at some point, I didn’t have your phone number either. And do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone with just a first name?

But, get this. So, in the days that followed Jenn’s text message–as you’ve completely consumed my mind–I’ve been trying to recall your last name. I’ve been trying to just will it into my memory, you know? Suddenly, yesterday morning, it clicked for me and I remembered what it was. (I’d tell you–but I assume you’re already familiar with your last name.)

You better believe that I went online and started looking for you in every place that I could think of. And, well, I found you. I think. I have an address. An address that I could send this letter to if I wanted.

(Are you reading this letter, Shania? Because, as of this very moment, I have no idea if I’d ever have the balls to send this to you or not. There’s a lot of ‘ifs’ here, really. If I actually think it’s a good idea to send you this letter or not. If I actually send this. If the address I have is correct. If the letter isn’t intercepted by a spouse. If you actually read this letter, when you see who it’s from. If you continue to read this letter when you see what I have to say. If you have any of the same feelings I do. If you even want to respond. If you respond, would you even be the same page, or would you just politely be telling me to fuck off? If you respond and are on the same page, what would we even do then?)

I’m probably asking too much for us to find a way to get back together again. Especially in the way that we had been before. I know this. I think I’ve accepted it, too.

However, maybe there’s some sort of in-between? Something better than just infinite silence between us for the rest of our lives.

Anything. I’ll take anything, Shania.

(Here’s that word again:) If you want to reach out to me, I’ve given you a number of options below. I’ll take no response as confirmation that you don’t wish to speak to me, and it’ll be the last you hear from me.

Assuming, of course, I send this letter in the first place.

Yours,

Cooper

===

To: Shania Armstrong (sarmstrong232@geemail.web)

From: Cooper Brooker (seabrook@geemail.web)

Subject: Re: A Response to Your Letter

Dear Shania,

You should’ve seen the look on my face when I saw your email. Pure elation. I doubt that look would’ve left my face even if you had spent the entirety of your email just cursing me out (which you had every right to do). So much elation, in fact, that it’s taken me three days to work up the nerve to finally prepare a response to you.

First of all, can we just acknowledge how many things went right here? I actually sent my letter. You received it (though, apologies for the close call with your husband when he asked why ‘strangers’ were sending you letters in the mail). You read the whole thing, and you weren’t even mad or disgusted by it.

And your response. God, your response was so much greater than anything I actually expected.

So, yeah:

You have a husband. Noted. You have a son. Noted (and congratulations!).

You’ve missed me too. Noted. You think about me all the time. Noted.

You still think about diapers. Also noted.

And you’re right–it really is asking a lot to do, well, much of anything at all. We’re both married. Happily, it seems. To throw it all away to chase some old fantasies does, as you said, would be a bit reckless. I’d have to say that I agree with that.

Thinking back to my letter (and that’s the thing about letters–you can’t go back and read them because they’re gone), I’m sure it was a bit…needy. You didn’t say as much, but I’ll go ahead and say it for the both of us. Your measured response was what I needed to put my feet back on the ground again. Thank you for that.

You asked me some questions. Would you care for some answers?

“Do you still wear diapers?”

On occasion. When I can. Believe me, if I had a reason to, I’d wear them everyday.

“...and if you do, do you still soil them?”

Do you remember how much I liked that word, or did you just learn that from my letter? Regardless. Again, I don’t get much time in diapers these days.

Though, I had diapers on the brain recently. After I sent you my letter, I went and slipped one on for the first time in quite some time. And once the diaper was on me…well, I couldn’t really help myself. You have no idea how delighted I was to see that you asked this. Could you even blame me for falling for you all over again?

“Have you ever cheated on your wife?”

I haven’t. They say ‘once a cheater, always a cheater,’ but…I had thought those days were behind me. Well, if you even want to call it cheating–I’m still not convinced that I ‘cheated’ on my previous partner with you or Jenn, given the state of our relationship at the time. But I digress.

No, I haven’t cheated on my wife. Is that hard to believe, given the (no doubt horny) tone of my letter?

In the time between Jenn’s text message and when I sent your letter, I’ll be perfectly honest with you: I was convinced that I’d drop everything in my life for you in an instant if you asked. Without hesitation. Today, with a cooler head about myself, I don’t know that I’d be so quick to shed everything.

And it seems like you feel the same way.

“Do you think things would be different now if you and I stayed in touch?”

Yes. I’m hesitant to elaborate much more on that. But, yes.

A question for you, now: Where do we go from here?

I don’t think there’s a wrong answer to that question, but I’d be curious to know what you’d have to say.

There’s so much more I want to say to you right now, but if I let myself–I’d probably have written an entire novel by the time I was finished. So. Let’s leave it at this for now.

I’m looking forward to your response, Shania.

Yours,

Cooper

===

To: Shania Armstrong (sarmstrong232@geemail.web)

From: Cooper Brooker (seabrook@geemail.web)

Subject: Re: A Response to Your Letter

Dear Shania,

I can tell you one thing for certain: I don’t think I’ll ever grow accustomed to the jolt of delight I feel when a new email from you arrives. Please, don’t apologize for not responding right away. After hoping to hear from you for years, a few days is nothing.

So I asked you a question. And you gave me an answer. Thank you for that.

You’re probably right. For now, this is how it should be. It’s good that we’re in touch at all, and so if we’re limited to just email–then we are just limited to email.

As you said: for now.

Now then, you asked me a question, yes? More of a request, really–but a very, very, good request.

“Could you just, maybe, put a diaper on for me? Maybe write my name on it or something? I don’t know–I just want it to be clear that it’s my diaper that you’re wearing. Then, tell me all about what happens while you’re wearing it. Make it up if you have to. Just…give me something fun to read. Please?”

Ask and you shall receive, Shania.

Initially, I wasn’t sure where to take my diapered ass, but after thinking about it for a few minutes, there was only one place that felt right–I wanted to go back to where it all started. I went to Marconi’s.

It was busy there tonight. As busy as it ever was. That’s a good thing, right? Restaurants around here come and go all the time, but this one seems like it’ll probably outlive the both of us.

Also? I don’t recognize a single member of the staff. Not a single damn one. They all look like little kids. Even the managers. Is that what we all looked like when we worked there?

Anyway, I’m tempted to get a table by myself, but I end up at the bar instead–squeezing between a young couple sharing some mozzarella sticks and a bald guy having a conversation on his phone. I can’t believe there was a time when I wore diapers as often as I did. I mean, I wore them to work! Where I walked around and talked to people! And here I was, just taking a seat and the slightest crinkle has me paranoid that the entire restaurant is staring at me.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind. It was kind of a rush.

I got a beer, as that’s what usually gets my bladder in a tizzy these days. Truth be told, I probably didn't need any extra help. An extra glass or two of water this afternoon had already put some pressure on my bladder. I didn't even make it halfway through my beer before the tension was such that I just had to let a little out.

Or, at least, that’s what I told myself. I’m sure you can guess what happened next, right? Once the floodgates open, there’s no closing them. I pissed myself real good right there on the barstool. People all around me going about their lives without any idea that I was sitting there flooding a huge diaper.

I was practically swimming in it, Shania. You’d have loved to have seen it.

Oh. But then, I heard a familiar voice a few barstools down. It was–you probably guessed it–Jenn herself. Still hanging out at the bar at Marconi’s. Still batting her eyelashes at the bartender–though the age gap between the current barstaff and her was greater than it had ever been. I had kind of stopped responding to her texts (the very ones that inspired me to reach out to you), and the last thing I needed right now was to be pulled into a conversation with her–especially while wearing a very wet diaper.

You’ll probably be happy to hear this–you were always a fan of leaks–but when I stood up, I instinctively felt the back of my pants. Wet. Not too bad–but bad enough that it was probably obvious to anyone who was staring at my ass.

Needless to say, I dropped some cash on the counter without even waiting for my check and scurried out the door.

There’s not a lot of options for a guy with a leaky diaper. As much as I’d love to wander aimlessly at the bookstore or the mall, I had no doubt that the wet spot on my pants was growing and becoming more obvious. And the last thing I needed was to run into someone I knew.

I went home instead, hoping that my wife wouldn’t be there. If she was–I’d need to somehow sneak into the bedroom for a change of pants without her noticing or stopping me. If she wasn’t…well, I probably wouldn’t be done with this diaper–your diaper–just yet.

You’ll be pleased to know that I got some more use out of your diaper.

Do you…want all the details? I’ll tell you what, I’ll share them all in the next paragraph. But if you don’t think you want to read them, then all you have to do is skip it. Fair?

It went like this: I stripped down to just my diaper–which, by this time, was sagging considerably from how wet it was. I had planned to do this in the bathroom, but that just didn’t seem as fun to me. Instead, I went to my home office–the closest thing I have to a sanctuary–and closed the door. Feeling the growing discomfort in my bowels, I sat on the edge of the small loveseat I keep in there while I waited for the pressure to increase just a little more. I was thinking about you, of course, and all those times we sat on a couch together while I wore just a diaper. Do you know what I loved? When you’d have me sit on your lap, and I’d just stay there until my diaper was sufficiently full. That’s what I was trying to imagine as I waited for my body to give up the fight and load the back of the diaper–your arms wrapped around me like a seatbelt, holding me close to you as we waited for the inevitable. I could almost hear you whispering in my ear: “Go on, baby. Make your poopies in your diaper like a good little boy.” (Holy cow, you have no idea how red my face is while I type out those words!) I swear, for a moment, it was like you were actually beneath me, coaxing me. At last, it happened. I don’t think I gave any signal to my body to release–it came as a surprise to me that I was suddenly messing myself. It all just pushed out in one big rush. In the sitting position that I was in, I didn’t give a lot of space for such a mess to go, and it was forced into every direction possible. The smell was…charmingly unpleasant? Again, I could just hear your voice whispering into my ear about it: “What a stinky, stinky, boy. What are we ever going to do with you?” And, of course, no loaded diaper was complete without a sticky little treat deposited into the front of it. I handled it as I imagined you would: my hand cupping the stiff lump under my diaper and rubbing it until I finally started spurting.

All this to say: I think you should be very proud of your diaper.

I took pictures. Of myself. Of the diaper. Of the clean-up. I won’t share them unless you ask me to. Just know that they’re for you if you want them.

But here I am, getting myself all worked up again just thinking about the diaper I filled for you. It feels good to write that: for you.

I’ll do it again, if you want. Shania, I’ll do anything for you–all you have to do is tell me.

This is the way it’s going to be. For now.

For now.

I should probably stop thinking about those two words as much as I do, huh? We should be leaving the future up to fate, and I’m nervous that if I keep repeating those words to myself, I’ll do something stupid in an effort to force a future that wasn’t meant to be.

I won’t. I’ll behave myself. [smiling emoji]

For now.

Words cannot express how excited I am to hear from you again. Take whatever time you need, of course.

Yours,

Cooper