In the Words of Frankie Valli "Oh, What a Night..
Holy hell, y'all.... what a night.
I had my first ever actual foray into this lovely lascivious world last night. I don't have the words to even really capture the whole situation right now, but I might if I ramble for a bit.
I've known I was an ABDL since I was 5 years old. Nothing traumatic happened to cause it, I just knew that I liked the way diapers/pull-ups felt when I wore them. I also knew that wasn't something "big boys" were allowed, so they became taboo. Like all children, I grew to want the thing I was denied more.
I've always been quick with a joke, charismatic, and creative. All tendencies often associated with children and childish people.
I'm not hypersexual, I think sex is an act of compassion I would share with someone I care about as a way of expressing that I care for them. In fact, traditional sex, as lovely as it is, isn't something I really want too often. Yet, I love making the people I love feel pleasured (typically orally or with some top-tier second-base work--seriously, what kind of pacifier sucking man would I be if I couldn't show a set of breasts a great time). I'm indifferent about the gender or sex of the person/people I spend my time with and would give head as quickly as going down on someone.
What was I talking about, again? Oh, yeah. I was rambling through my personal stuff to try and explain my kinks, that way I can get to what happened last night and parse through that whole experience.
So, I know that I'm an ABDL. That's AdultBaby-Diaper-Lover for those of you not hip to the lingo. This means I like wearing diapers and being forced to act like a baby. The keyword in the whole acronym, for me, is "adult" (also, diaper. I really do like diapers, I can't explain it... I wish I could). That's why I'm stepping away from the terms "little" and "ageplayer."
Several folks I've spoken to are not interested in having a scene with someone who roleplays a certain age. Which, frankly, makes a lot of sense. Age is a profound factor in consent. So, if someone is in the headspace of a two-to-four-year-old, can they really consent to sexual acts?
I don't go into a juvenile mindset when I'm in headspace. Sure, I get shyer and more bubbly and more affectionate, but that's because I'm comfortable and in character. That character is a grown-ass man who is being treated like a baby. Why am I being treated like a baby? Who knows. Maybe I'm being punished by a strict mistress/master who thinks I should earn my "grown-up privileges" back through obedience and humiliation. Maybe I've had such a hard time of it all lately that I just asked to have my responsibilities taken away and a helpful, but sadistic, friend/play-partner took that request to the extreme. Maybe I just looked at someone and said, "hey, you wanna humiliate me and treat me like a baby in front of people, rubbing the fact that I don't get to do the cool stuff they're doing in my face?"
Any way ya slice it, I don't think of myself as an actual baby or "little." Not that I have a problem with folks being little or having a regressive headspace. That's just not what I'm into. When I play with toys, I'm not thinking "yay, toys." I'm thinking, "grumble, grumble, I have to play with this stupid stacking ring and watch cartoons while the 'grown-ups' are fucking in the other room... this is so humiliating... also, did I just call them 'grown-ups? Fuck. Get it together, man. Don't let them win." Yes, my inner monologue is as obtuse as my prose. I'm not going to apologize for who I am.
I know that diapers are a big turn-off for a lot of folks. That makes sense. Honestly, if I could choose one part of myself to brainwash away, it'd be the diapers thing. But, it's like... really deep in there. So, if I try and neuro-scrub that away I'll probably lose the memory of the first time I broke 100 bowling. I like that memory too much to risk it.
On the flipside, I also respect folks' limits. So, this weekend when I was talking to a well-equipped top about possibly getting into some impact play and she said "diapers are a hard limit." I said, "okay, that's cool with me." I still get to play and I can wear a diaper later. She still gets to tear into my ass and tell me I'll need the cushioning when she's through. That's a win-win in my book.
That's why the two-or-three times I've had an ABDL scene with folks and they've said "diapers are fine, but like... don't crap your pants." I said, "of course, I'm not a monster. I would never do that..........aroundanotherperson...."
I also know that I'm a service...something... now. I love to make the people I care for feel good. If I can do that with my body, I will. If a person I admire wants me to bind them and tickle them, I will. Does that make me a top? I doubt it. Most traditional tops probably don't want to be the lowest rung on the social ladder in a room. If someone I care for is about to get down to business with a partner and they asked me to get them in the mood with a little oral, I'd do it. Does that make me a fluffer/service sub? Maybe... but, that kinda contradicts the whole "binding and tickling" thing.
I also realize I'm kind of a cuckold. I don't need to have sex. I cannot emphasize how much I like diapers... But, if my partner wants to get that good lovin' from someone else, I'd be a monster to deny them the pursuit of such pleasures. Getting festooned in all my adornments, fluffing the two people before their hot session, and being forced to engage in infantile recreation while they moan (in the same or an adjacent room) that's my jam!
So, what about last night?
What the hell happened and why do I need to take one thousand words to vamp into it?
I had the pleasure of visiting a local swinger's club that hosts a monthly BDSM night. They also host a munch every month that I've gone to a few times now.
I've made some very cool friends in this group. Like, real friends.
Talented creators and performers, astonishing intellectuals, wisened sages, and a few reincarnated standups. Seriously, these people are just the top-tits. Oh, and my favorite part is, they're welcoming to everyone. No judgments from this crew.
You like knives? Cool, you can play and hang... just don't be a self-obsessed asshole. You like cuddly soft things? Okay, you can hang too, just don't be a self-obsessed asshole.
So, I go to BDSM night at this clubhouse. I'm going with a bud that I made at the munches. He's super cool, a social butterfly with firecracker intellect, a real fuckin' charmer. He's into tickle-torture and is a self-proclaimed "top-from-the-bottom" type. At the most recent munch, I said "listen, I'll do all the stuff you like to you if you go as my plus one to this event." You can assume his answer.
Here's the thing... I've never topped before. In fact, I've never done an official BDSM scene before.
I've been married for a decade, found my wife in college, and have been exploring my ABDL tendencies exclusively with her. She was the boss/mommy, I was the servant/baby. It was always just between us and it was great, honestly.
Well, we're going through a divorce, something I don't want to talk about and haven't had time to really process.
So, I figure, it's time to explore and see what this wide world of BDSM holds. I want to find what other kinky things I can pair with my already known desires. I figure bondage gets crazy when you don't have to be untied to go to the bathroom and that pacifiers are just cute gags. Hell, diapers are padding that provides a challenge for those cocky spankers (again, please don't tell them I called them cocky, I want to sit down sometime).
Cut back to this BDSM event. Here I am, in the middle of a room, surrounded by people. I've got this man stripped down to his skivvies (a real cute tiger-print bikini-cut situation) and strapped to a cross. I'm dressed in an ADORABLE dragon-themed onesie with my diaper poking out the leg holes and dinosaur socks (I know they clash, but they're both cute, so fuck you).
All I'm thinking is "fuck... I am WAY out of my depth here. I've never done this part before. I'm in charge for a living. This is supposed to be the time when I'm the opposite of in charge. Out charge? No, that sounds dumb. Also, I feel like I'm staring at a parody rendition of that X-Men 251 cover. Focus... Okay, you got this, take charge. Just tickle the dude."
And, to the sounds of "Pepper" by the Butthole Surfers, I just dive in. By the time the singer was droning about Paulie catching a bullet, I was fully into it.
A little Wartenberg wheel here, a little feather duster here, some gentle rubs up and down the sides, and boom I had this shit on lock.
The little tickle monster was having a blast. And, ya know what, making him feel good felt great! It was just like giving oral, except entirely different in every way. I give damn good oral and I like when people feel good. So, I really liked topping. 'Cause, ya know, it's just making people feel good with the trappings of medieval torture. So, feeling good through feeling bad... I'm sure no one's made a joke like that before. I expect my Pulitzer nomination by next week.
I got some great feedback, too. So, if it happens again, I can do it even better next time.
The insane part is, my night didn’t end there.
I spent the next two hours just watching, observing, taking it all in. This was at the advice of one of the DMs, that's Dungeon Master for other newbies.
Side note, as a tabletop gamer and forever-DM it is so weird to have a conversation with another DM that didn't reference the monster manual or end with some kind of joke about rolling for initiative.
Oh, additional side note, the DMs at this event were fucking AWESOME! They're knowledgeable and patient and accepting. They're also confident and skilled in such different areas. The DM that was giving me advice is a master at mind-fuckery and can swing a paddle like Thor taking flight. I hope to get more than advice from her, someday. Or, maybe just to have another great conversation with her. Cool people are cool and every interaction doesn't need to have an ulterior motive.
I watched my first ever actual impact scene. Sure, I've seen spanking in porn and I've even written a pretty great spanking scene myself (didn't realize who accurate that was at the time), but this was different. This young woman was on this spanking bench, naked except for fishnets. She was exposed and vulnerable to the entire house. Next to her was a long massage table, its shelves laden with instruments of torture I couldn't conceive if I was paid six figures.
Then two, yes TWO, doms start laying into this girl. At one point four flogs are raining on this woman. I'm no mathematician, but that's like thirty-six cat-tails just pelting her back and ass. The whole time she is WAILING, with pleasure. Just as she's getting into it, they stop. They just fucking put the flogs down and ignore her for a second. That's cruel... And these doms LOVED it.
When she was getting impatient, didn't take long, like five seconds, they start hitting her with these sticks or thin things. I don't know, I was wincing in empathetic pain and couldn't really see.
And that's how it went, for twenty minutes! They just went from one instrument of pain to the next. Half the things they picked up from their table of tools were these finely crafted homemade pieces. They kitbashed beaters like I did He-Man figures as a kid and it's AWESOME!
After all the abuse, the doms took these hand-towel-sized pelts of rabbit fur and started rubbing the sub's back and thighs. Where just three seconds ago the room had been filled with the sounds of lashing and screaming, now there was only the sound of Mad World fading out as Marylin Manson started to tell us about the Beautiful People.
The aggression and deviousness, the victimhood and violence, were all gone. Replaced with these two people gingerly caressing this tender woman. They leaned on her, embraced her, whispered praise and hushed admiration to her.
The utter sincerity of it all made me speechless.
I was standing next to one of the other DMs, a paragon of masculinity wearing a kilt and a stoic expression, as I silently cried a single tear I couldn't stop if I'd wanted to.
I'm sure that was a sight, six-foot-three man-baby crying next to a concrete pylon of a Scotsman. Not that anyone would look our way. Why would they? The most beautiful expression of love and humanity was unfolding ten feet away.
I watched some other scenes, each as profoundly impactful (pun intended). During some, a knife came out... Not gonna lie, that made me a little jumpy. I could periodically hear the dull buzzing of an electrical device in another room; like Dr. Frankenstein was trying to galvanize life into something. That also made me jumpy.
But, hey, I learned some hard limits. All without having to experience them. So, yay. Now, I know. No stabby and no shocky for me, thank you very much.
During the impact scenes I watched, I saw all manner of devices get used. Each one made me wince in empathy I didn't know I could feel.
And, ya know what, the twisted freak susing them got off on it. They'd look over at me reacting to how they broke a dowel-rod on someone's ass, probably because I gasped louder than I intended, and they’d smiled. They’d locked eyes with me and I swear they licked their lips as if to say "you're next, little one."
Which... ya know... I don't think either party involved in the stare-down enjoyed... so... like... whatever...
Eventually, I had a convo with one of these purveyors of paddling and had a chat about possibly having a scene.
She was super cool. Very cordial and very patient with my ignorance.
She's not into ageplay, remember that thing about age and consent I mentioned earlier?
I told her "good, I'm not actually a baby. I'm a grown-ass man who likes to be humiliated."
"Oh, so it's a degradation thing," she answered.
"Okay, that's fine. Being called Mommy is a hard limit for me," she said.
"Good, I've only ever called my wife that and I don't intend to give that title to anyone for a while," I countered.
"Great. Diapers are a hard limit. The onesie is fine. No diapers, for me though," she just threw it on the table.
"I can work with that. I get it, not everyone's cup of tea," I conceded.
As far as conversations go, it was quick and direct and had less fat than a cup of skim milk.
I did participate in an impact scene last night... not with this particular person though.
About an hour later, I found myself on my knees as a woman pulled tool after tool from her gorgeous duffle bag. I don't recall the brand, but it's one of the nice ones. Anyway, she's pulling out flogs with hex-nuts on them and a cat of nine-tails she made from a bicycle tire. Seriously, if these folks ever get tired of beating the shit out of people, there is a craft show somewhere that is going to have a line around the block.
Oh, I'm on my knees, but still in my onesie and diaper. This lady, with her fancy bag of self-made tools, did not have that previous person's hard limit.
I need to mention at this point, I chose not to wear plastic pants. Some of you reading this know what's about to happen. Some of you are probably scratching your head about why I'd wear vinyl slacks. Different plastic pants, mine are like rubber underwear that goes over your diaper. My whole getup is like an ogre, it has layers.
Anyway, my first impact scene begins.
I've been spanked before. Not too hard, mind you. Mostly an openhanded show of dominance, more show than dominance.
The things that started hitting my body were not an open hand.
It started simple, some rubber billy club thing with dull spikes on the head. That didn't feel too bad... on the padded part of my posterior.
Oh, by the way, one of the other tops is watching, commenting on how easy I have it because of my padding. Which... didn't humiliate me at all and definitely didn't add an additional fifteen percent of enjoyment for me.
So, this billy club and my padded ass are getting acquainted. Then, billy takes a trip to my thighs... which are not padded. Billy is a very aggressive conversationalist. Then... then, billy takes a trip to my crotch.
Okay... so... full disclosure, I had been drinking a lot of water. I needed to stay hydrated because diapers get sweaty sometimes and the more hydrated you are the less chaffing the sweat causes. That might not be true, but I believe it to be true, and I'm writing this. So, roll with it.
Um... I *may* have wet my diaper, a little bit...
So... the bill club starts thumping up against my diapered crotch, which may or may not be slightly warm and damp. I experience a flash of ecstasy, the likes of which I have never felt.
Then, bill goes back to my bottom...harder. Eventually, he reacquaints himself with my thighs, much more intensely this time. And when makes that return trip to the front end, I am laughing with pleasure.
Then billy's gone. There is a moment of silence as the wonderful woman topping me, grabs the crotch of my onesie and drags me back toward her. Apparently, I'd wriggled down the bed a little bit and she didn't want me getting any ideas of escape. This... was one of the most humbling gestures I've ever been subjected to. It was also the moment I realized I am VERY much into impact play.
Several other of her tools took a tour of my diapered region, each unique and powerful. Sometimes, she'd even lean over the bed and show me what she was working with, like if QVC was selling Hellraiser memorabilia.
Eventually, I told her "I think I need to stop."
I didn't say this because of the pain, which shockingly there was some of that. I said that because I knew the adrenaline had fully kicked in and I was about to not know when enough was actually enough. I didn't want my first time to be my worst time.
It was then I learned a very valuable lesson. When you flog someone in a diaper, the diaper dies. It dies a horrible death. Your impact scene becomes a murder scene. No, it becomes a tiger mauling.
Fluff, pulp, and plastic lay around me like the world's dumbest snowstorm had just sharted out a single shower in a two-foot halo. I was its center.
Before the utter shame of the mess I'd caused could wrack my currently jellified mind, my tormentor had pulled me into her arms and was cuddling me.
I apologized for the mess.
She shushed me. Told me it was fine, we would clean it up quick, no problem.
Another top, the one who had a hard limit on diapers, was wailing away on a fellow with a rope-dart-inspired thing I'd later learn was called a "Dragon's Tail," and I thought I was a nerd. She didn't seem phased at all by the infantile particles that now litter her space. In fact, she beamed at me with supportive pride.
Ya see, my wife participated in my kink because she loved me. Not because it was her jam. There was always an unspoken and underlying sense of obligation and mild disgust. Which, I get it. Your grown-ass husband is asking you to wipe his ass, it's a big ask.
But, these people were perfectly fine with it. Almost, dare I say, cool with it.
I immediately set about cleaning up the mess I'd made... Well, the mess I caused. I didn't technically make it, but I'm not saying that to the lady that made the mess. She's crazy, she beats dudes with ropes and car parts. And I love that about her.
So, I pick up all the scraps of myself and run to the restroom to dispose of my now demolished PeekABU. Yes, for those of you diaper fans reading this, I wore the Coupe Deville of diapers. If you're curious, it was the one with the dragon on it, because my socks might not always match my onesie but my diaper damn sure will.
I take the bathroom garbage out and get a fresh bag in the can. I'm not making my shame anyone else's problem.
WIth my onesie now pressing against my naked flesh... my freshly beaten flesh, I grab my shorts from my cubby. Yes, this clubhouse has cubbies, because secretly every sexy person is into some facets of recapturing their youth and this place chose "daycare storage method."
I run back to the room where our scene was and change the sheets on the bed I was spanked on, after Clorox wiping the rubber mattress. I sanitized the floor where my diaper exploded and start pounding water.
The whole time I'm cleaning the dom with the dragon tail keeps smiling at me. She's a nice lady. Ya know, if you're not the one on her bench. It made me feel like she was proud of me for cleaning up my mess. Which made me feel equal parts blushy and shocked. Do most people not clean up after themselves here? I saw blood earlier. People clean up their blood, right? (Yes, they do. I watched them do it.)
Once the room is clean, I realize the reason I've been so productive is I've disassociated. I've done everything I did for the past five minutes on autopilot.
I start looking around the room for more stuff to do. I need to clean something. There must be more of the mess I've made in my shameful act that I need to clean. I need to remove all evidence of my transgression from this place. These people don't want some freak who likes pretending to be a baby ruining their nice place. These are the thoughts racing through my head.
There's nothing more to clean. I got it all.
The lady with the dragon tail had all her subs drink water when they were done. So, that's what ya do when you're done, obviously.
I drank my bottle of water in record time.
I look around. Still, no more mess to clean.
I go outside and get another bottle of water.
I remember having conversations. I don't recall what I said.
I need to get back to that room with my water. I need to show the dragon tail lady that I'm drinking my water and I know there's gotta be more shameful fluff on that floor.
It dons on me, I might be having the sub equivalent of a bad trip.
Another person I know runs into me.
"When do I stop shaking?" I ask.
"What do you mean? Did you just get topped? You need to sit down sweetie," they answer, grabbing a brownie from the dessert table.
Wait, there's dessert? I should get a brownie.
No, wait. Someone told me to go sit down. I need to sit down.
I'll go sit down in the room with the dragon tail lady. I'll sit down and drink my water and look for more mess to clean.
I finally sit down and realize I'm having some form of a manic episode or something. So, I start meditating. I just start breathing. Pepper by the Butthole Surfers starts playing again, I guess we hit the loop. A dom is whipping a sub in the other room to the rhythm of the bass drum. I start breathing to that rhythm.
One measure in, hold for one measure, one measure out, hold for one measure. I repeat this until the song is done.
My pulse slows, I didn't even realize it was racing. My face is flush.
I have my glasses in my hand.
Warm lines are tracing my face.
It isn't the pain. Don't get me wrong, my ass is starting to hurt, but not bad enough to cry over.
Fuck, this is the second time I've cried tonight. I'm not really doing a good job of showing these people how mature I am.
I haven't felt these things in years. No... I've never really felt them.
My wife loved me and I loved her, I'm still in love with her. I wish it was reciprocated, but it isn't and that's okay. People grow apart.
As much as we grew together, as much as we loved one another, my wife never fully accepted how much of my life all of this was. That's because I never knew how important it was to me.
These people. These welcoming people, they get it. They get it because it's their truth too.
Sure, they don't like diapers and humiliation and they might want to fuck more often. But, they're people who have something hidden that is essential to their core. These people get it. They understand what it's like to live a lie or a half-truth. They also welcome others who want to embrace their full truth.
I never knew I needed that. I never knew I didn't already have it.
I'm crying because for over a decade I've never known how deeply this part of me runs. I'm crying because it took losing the love of my life, having my best friends leave me, and restarting my life completely from scratch to truly feel accepted and accept myself.
"You doin' okay?" A voice asks.
I open my eyes, I didn't realize they were closed. I wipe hot tears from my cheek and put my glasses on.
The large figure before me fades into clarity.
It's the dragon tail lady's partner in crime. He's a big guy, about my size. Maybe taller. Maybe I think he's taller because it makes me feel smaller and I like that. Who cares. He’s also the guy who joked about my padding when I was getting my ass beat.
I'd watched him beat the hell out of some folks earlier tonight. That anecdote about the broken dowel-rod was him.
I go to answer him. My words don't work. I don't even stammer. I just look up at him with my mouth agape. The clenching in my throat bars all words.
"Take your time," he says patiently.
His tenderness makes me want to well with a fresh batch of tears. I'd just stopped crying too.
"three... three months ago, my wife asked for a separation. It was the day after our ten-year anniversary." I start the story I've avoided telling anyone in this group.
"Shit, man. That's awful, I'm sorry," the sincerity of the words has them out of his mouth before he even knew he was saying them.
I smile. It's the exact same response literally everyone who's found out has had. I almost said it along with him, just to fuck with him. But, he's being nice and there's no way he can know where I am emotionally, that's why he asked.
I explain that it's okay. It's amicable...mostly... and that I'm actually okay with it...mostly.
I explain that I haven’t been able to deal with the emotions of it all. That I've been in survival mode for the past 90 days. I've been too busy restarting my life to process feelings. I know in my mind everything’s okay, that it's good, that I'll make it through.
I just haven't had my heart ride that wave itself.
I want to say, "I think that lady beat my feelings lose."
"I'm just feeling all these emotions at once, but I think it's all mostly happy," I actually say.
He sits with me for a while. We talk tabletop board games and how shitty commutes are.
Another person I'd met that night, one of the big guy's victims, joins us. They're eating a brownie. They ask what's going on.
I give them the lowdown, quicker with fewer tears.
I suppress the quoting of the reflex reaction once more. Next time it happens, I might make an ass of myself.
I look at the brownie and realize, I need to eat.
I talk with them about various things. I don't remember the conversations, my brain is coming down from the emotional high and now I'm feeling sluggish and sleepy.
I think that lady broke me. First I get all pumped with adrenaline, manic, and full of shame. Next, I get the full Snow-White suite of emotions. Now, I feel like I just downed a bottle of Nyquil.
Another person comes over. This woman's cool, I've spoken to her tonight in passing.
We talk for a few minutes about life and difficulty. She must have overheard my sad-boy divorce story, I usually do a better job keeping that one to myself. I think that lady broke my brain real good.
Mid-sentence, I look at the woman I'm talking to and say "I'm hungry."
I get up and go get food, just killed the conversation and walked away Jason Voorhees style.
I eat a slice of pizza, I think. Everything is kind of hazy.
I get dressed in cloths that won't make an officer regret pulling me over. I grab my bag from my cubby. I laugh at the cubby. It's silly. These people are silly. I like these people.
I walk around to the people I know, I say goodbyes I don't recall the phrasing of.
I go to my car. I put my address in the GPS. I sit down. I yelp.
I'm lucid again. I turn the car on and head home.
Even as I sit here writing this the day after, I can't remember a more surreal day in my life.
Last night was a Dali painting. It was a giraffe's with spider legs and baby's biting into rats. It was melting clocks and lobster phones. It was also a pure fucking delight and I can't wait to do it again next month.
