Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.
Doug Easton paused, as he often did, as he entered the drugstore. Did he really want to do this? He was twenty-eight years old, and had a lot to lose if he was caught. After several years of working on Wall Street after college, he’d decided that he wanted to switch gears totally and get into a basic science graduate program, get his Ph.D. and teach or do research or something interesting and not so stressful. He’d come to this mid-sized town on the eastern seaboard because it had such an excellent program. He’d taken the pre-req’s and gotten a job in the lab where he wanted to work as a grad student, as a way of networking his way into a position in the program. It was now October, and he’d worked for several months now. It looked very promising. He simply had to take the GRE’s on Saturday, a week from today, and do well enough not to embarrass himself, and the odds were that he would be accepted for the following year. He had a lot riding on getting in, since he’d sacrificed so much to get to this point. It would be horrible to screw it up now.
But he’d shopped for diapers to satisfy his part-time fetish for so many years now, he knew he had little to fear. No one yet had bothered him or asked him to explain his purchases. He’d never run into anyone important. When he’d started buying disposable diapers several years ago, he’d always been sure to have a good story on hand in case the cashier got curious. He could never decide whether to use the one about having a sick grandparent or the riskier and more embarrassing one about having an intermittant medical problem. But he’d never had to use a story: no one had ever asked *why* he was buying the diapers. This always disappointed him in a way, as part of the fun of buying the diapers was the implied humiliating nature of the purchase. Later, as he got bolder, he would heighten his excitement by shopping for diapers or pads while wearing one, and he was careful to make it not so obvious that anyone would notice (he thought) but that if given a clue (eg. shopping in the incontinence section) another shopper or a clerk might put the crinkly sound together with the bulge and the slight waddle. And *still* no one ever commented or even looked at him strangely, so he’d long since assumed that people were simply too self-absorbed and not observant enough. Some of the thrill of the purchase had departed for him; today he hadn’t even bothered with wearing a diaper.
He put any nervousness he had aside and stepped further into the store. What he saw amazed him. The incontinence section was larger than any Doug had ever seen. Instead of being set off by itself in a little corner of the store, it was smack in the middle. As he cautiously approached it, he could see shelves of large, plump plastic bags awaiting him, and he felt that familiar excitement. The aisles were wide, and the intervening shelves fairly short, so as he entered the first aisle he was acutely aware of how visible he was. He was in plain view of the rest of the store, and felt a little more vulnerable than he liked. He looked around, though, and no one else seemed to be around, not even sales people. He wondered briefly how such a large store could stay in business.
He shook off his nerves, and went about his routine of cataloguing the store’s inventory in his head. In most stores this was easy–no more than two brands of diapers, and usually the same two everywhere. But here, the supply was vast, with many brands of which he had never even heard. He was disoriented, and, in the end, completely startled when his reverie was interrupted by a female voice behind him.
“Can I help you?”
He whirled around, and saw a lady in her late fifties with a kind-looking face and a helpful expression. “What?” he stammered.
“I said, can I help you, young man?” she repeated.
“Oh,” he said, too threatened to think clearly. “No. Thank you. I’m, uh, fine.”
But she was persistent, to his surprise and dismay. “Is there anything I can help you find?”
“No, no,” he said, trying to be nonchalant. “I’m just…looking around.” He only realized after he said it how ridiculous that sounded in an incontinence section. He blushed a bright red.
But she smiled warmly, as if she’d heard this before. She stepped closer to him and lowered her voice, though the store was still empty. “Sir, there are only two reasons why anyone ever shops in this section. One, they are looking for a specific item, or two, they have a specific problem they need to solve.. Okay? Now, you look a little embarrassed to be here and perhaps anxious to get out in a hurry. Am I right?”
He nodded as if in a trance. This had never happened before, he was dazed, and he had no idea where this was all headed.
She smiled in response and touched his arm. “Alright, well, I can help you do either thing faster and more efficiently, so that you can leave sooner,” she said conspiratorily. “If you need to find a certain item, I can show you quickly where it is, so you can make your purchase and get out. Do you know exactly what you need?” He realized that she wanted the specific brand name of a product. He wasn’t sure, of course, what they had, or even what he wanted to walk out of here with. So he said, truthfully, “Not really.”
She then smiled another smile, one that was intended to give him moral support for whatever problem she figured he’d just discovered he had. “In that case, I can be of even more help. I can show you what we have, tell you what the differences are, and we can decide together what product will best suit your needs. Now, I don’t have to tell you how important a custom fit is when it comes to wetting: I know you want a product that will always keep you dry. I guess we both know that accidents are even more embarrassing than shopping for diapers. Am I right?” she asked, nodding sympathetically.
He found himself nodding along with her, since that’s what she clearly wanted him to do, even as he wondered how *she* knew what accidents were like, and even though he had never had an “accident” that wasn’t on purpose. He was starting to feel many different and conflicting emotions: he was definitely curious how this encounter might turn out, but he was also petrified at the thought of admitting to anyone an interest in diapers. And under it all ran a strong current of sexual excitement and more than a little tinge of humiliation. But then, he reminded himself, that’s why he was here. He decided to go with the flow and see where the tide took him. It was a decision he would later regret.
“So let me orient you to the different levels of protection we have. Then we can decide what level will be best for you and take it from there.” This idea produced some anxiety, but he had never acted on his fantasy like this, and all he could think about was how this would provide him excellent fantasy fodder for weeks to come. He tried to settle himself down and act calm.
Turning, and indicating a smaller package, she said, “There are four levels, generally, of protection. By far, most folks fit in the first two, but there are two higher levels for the nursing home crowd. Most people with your…problem…” and here he blushed again, “find that the first level, pads like these, is all they need. It just tapes into your underpants, and you often can’t even notice it’s there.” He smiled to himself and wondered what good that would do him! “But it can protect you against the little accidents a lot of people have. So you’d pick this if you just occasionally had the minor wetting problem that many people do have,” she explained. “Is this the sort of product you might need?” she asked, nodding again, and clearly expecting him to again nod back.
And he was half tempted to say yes, because her references to his “little problem” were growing very embarrassing for him. But if he bailed out now, not only would he be wasting his money, but he wouldn’t be able to return in the future to this beautiful store for what he really wanted. This older lady was clearly the keeper of the diapers, and if he wanted to shop here, he’d obviously have to do it in her company. He looked away, frowned, and shook his head slightly in some shame.
She was a little surprised, and was tempted to glance down at his shorts for evidence that he was wearing anything more substantial than pads. She knew what to look for, but hadn’t yet with him because she’d assumed, since he looked young and healthy, that his problem was minimal. And maybe it still was. So instead of examining him with her practiced eye, she just went on.
“Okay…well…let’s move on to the next higher level. Most companies call them either guards or shields, and they are just like the pads, but are thicker and therefore absorb more at a time. They’re for people who have slightly larger accidents or who can’t always change right away as is necessary for the pad. It also just tapes into your underpants; its larger size, however, means that you could probably feel it when you wear it, especially when it’s wet. But at this level it’s still completely invisible to others, and it certainly is not so bulky as to change the way you walk. You might pick this type of protection if you wet in moderate amounts or if you’re a first time buyer who is maybe insecure about the protection offered by the pad…” she smiled at him pointedly, clearly believing this was he.
He cleared his throat and shifted his weight. This was more embarrassing than the last level. To ask to go further implied some major deficiency on his part. And again he couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Could you, um, tell me about the next level?”
This time he saw her instinctively glance at his shorts, obviously looking for a signs of a diaper under his clothes. Not seeing any bulge, she went on, a bit perplexed. This guy was very probably insecure, and didn’t need the next levels. But perhaps by describing them to him, she could steer him away from wearing something that was too bulky and visible.
“Well, of course. But the next level takes a step up in both size and bulk. It’s called an undergarment, and it’s usually big enough to require straps that go around your hips to keep it on, and bulky enough to be fairly visible under your pants. It’s not as bad as a diaper, and won’t usually make you waddle, but you’ll be more self-conscious about what you wear so the undergarment doesn’t show. It’s very absorbant, and usually these are for the elderly or occasional medical patients.” She paused and looked at him, wanting him to get the point. “You see what I mean? It’s a big step up, and probably more than you need. As I said, the vast majority of wetters just need a pad or guard. Want to try one of those?”
He felt the weight of her pressure, but he was too close now. His mind whirled with what she might infer, though he actually had no idea what the implications would, in fact, be. “No, actually, could you go over the fourth level?” he nearly whispered to the floor.
She allowed a concerned look to cross her face, and she wondered how this could be happening again, with another young man. In a tone tinged with the frustration of not understanding how he could possibly be interested in diapers if he were not so dependent as to wear them all the time, she said,
“Well, the fourth level is the brief, or the adult diaper. And they are for invalids, mostly. They are taped on with refastenable tapes and worn just like a baby diaper.” As she said this she realized how much she wanted this obviously functional man to buy something else. “They usually have a strip to tell people if you’re wet or dry, just like for babies, and the legs have elastic gathers to stop leaks. I’ll admit that they are the only product that offers *total* protection, either for heavy, continuous wetting or for bowel control problems. But as you can see, these “briefs” are really reserved for someone who is completely diaper-dependent, and not for someone with an apparently good quality of life.”
She took a breath. She was wound up. She had to give this guy good advice. If he was a regular diaper-wearer, well, that would be different, but this healthy young man shouldn’t need the kind of help she gave to them. “You see, they are almost always visible under your clothing. Diaper-wearers are simply unable to conceal them well enough. Some people may tell you differently, but I’m here to tell you I can always spot ’em. Plus, you’d have to waddle a little with any of the diapers I’d sell you, and other people can always pick out a diaper-wearer by his waddle. And then there’s the give-away sound; even in relatively loud areas, nothing sounds like a diaper.”
She paused again. Maybe she’d gone too far, but she did feel strongly about it. She composed herself, and went on, “So you see, you are looking for the least bulky product that will still do the job. I’ll tell you, I can judge by looking at you that you need a pad or a guard. Which will it be, so we can get you out of here?”
He had endured that onslaught with patience and actually a bit of excitement. Maybe people really had been able to tell he was wearing diapers. He’d have to think about that. But meanwhile, he had to burst her bubble (and, in the process, doom himself to a fate he had never really considered). He glanced at her quickly and forced out the words he’d been destined to say. “I think I, uh, probably need to, um, get the briefs.” He stared very hard at the floor.
She blinked and shook her head for a moment, then her manner changed. She said in a stern voice, like a disappointed second-grade teacher, “No, now, you haven’t paid attention. Briefs are the *fourth* level. Most people either pick level one or level two, pads or guards. Briefs are the *diapers*, and you only wear them if you have bowel control problems or very bad bladder control problems.
“You see, I can tell you don’t need briefs, because if you really did need them, you’d have to wear them all the time, and I can see that you are not wearing a brief right now,” she explained with a pointed look toward his crotch that made him blush. “So let’s go over it again, and try to listen this time: you might start with the pads, then try guards or shields, then undergarments, and then, only as a last resort, briefs. Okay? Understand?” He nodded. “So which would you like to try?”
He coughed. This was getting more and more embarrassing. “I really think I need the briefs.”
There was a long pause as she tried to divine what was going through his mind. He seemed not to need the extra protection, since he was clearly not wearing a brief now, but he wanted it anyway. He must simply be insecure about leakage with the less absorbant products. “Is this, um, problem a relatively recent one?” she asked.
He nodded hesitantly. He didn’t know where she was leading, and was unsure of what his “story” should be.
“So you haven’t tried a lot of these products, have you?” she said, thinking she was beginning to understand.
He nodded again, deciding that that fit in well with the story he’d always imagined telling. It would explain why he didn’t know what he wanted.
“No, I thought not,” she said, smiling and with compassion. “I understand your anxiety about leakage, and I think it’s smart to get the item that will protect you appropriately. No one likes to have accidents. But you must believe me when I tell you that most of these smaller products will take care of all but a few incontinence problems, and I hate to see a young, attractive guy like you wear a diaper if he doesn’t need to. Because people *do* notice the diapers, as I mentioned. It’s impossible not to notice,” she said shaking her head sadly. “Some people absolutely have to, but because of the social stigma, I like to encourage most folks walking around with your average wetting problem to try the lower levels of protection. I can almost promise you that you won’t wet your pants. Trust me, okay, sweetie?”
This was really getting old. He was tired of this game, especially since it wasn’t getting him anywhere. I’ve been here ten minutes and this lady wouldn’t give me any diapers, he thought. Okay, I’ll try one more time. “No, I really think I need the briefs,” he said as firmly as he could without being downright rude.
Another long pause as she tried to figure out why she couldn’t get through to this person. Perhaps she’d misjudged his intelligence. So when she spoke again, it was as though she was talking to a four-year-old. “Okay. I guess maybe I was using too many big words. Let me try again with words you might understand. A bladder control problem is when you can’t help wetting your pants. Now,” she said, wanting to pin this boy’s problem down a little better, “do *you* wet your pants?” She was using the same tone you might use to ask a preschooler if an apple is red.
This treatment was more embarrassing than anything else he’d ever been through. Their communication gap had apparently convinced her that he was an idiot, and that was more humiliation than he had bargained for. But he couldn’t just walk out, or he’d never be able to come back. This store’s selection was too great for him to burn this bridge. So he just nodded, with quite a bit of shame.
Seeing this, and happy that he finally seemed to understand, she decided to continue in this vein, saying, “Okay, that’s alright. It’s very common, and I sort of figured as much, for otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But now let’s talk about bowel control problems, which are much less common. That means you can’t help, well, pooping in your pants. Most people don’t have a problem with this, and those that do are often very sick or old. *They* are the ones who have to wear diapers, since nothing else can control this problem. So, do *you* poop in your pants? Do you mess your pants?”
The silence hung heavy. This was obviously the acid test, what he would have to admit to in order to qualify for buying diapers from this woman. So, as embarrassed as he was, he stared at the floor and nodded. A grown man, admitting that he messed his pants. He felt all of two years old.
And not surprisingly, there was a long silence afterward, as she tried to judge whether or not to believe him. That would certainly be serious if true. “Oh, well, everyone has an occasional accident,” she said nonchalantly, “especially when they’re sick. Is that what you meant?”
Oh, please, he thought. Why are you dragging this out? He cleared his throat in embarrassment and shook his head. He still couldn’t look at her.
“Oh,” she said in a moment. “Well, do you poop in your pants often?” He nodded. “Everyday?” Again. “And you also wet your pants everyday?” Yes. “Um, do you have any control over whether you pee or poop?” He shook his head, staring at the floor.
Silence. This was far worse than she expected. “Have you seen a doctor?” she asked with concern.
“Yes,” he said, having to clear his throat first. He still couldn’t look at her. “He, um, said it would take a couple months until we, um, got it all worked out, so he sent me here.”
“Oh,” she said, seeing this in a much different light. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” This boy did need some serious protection. “Sorry to ask you all these personal questions, but it helps me tremendously to know what I’m treating, and sometimes we just need to hear words we understand.” She continued to assume he wasn’t very smart, although it was now clear that he’d understood her the whole time. She just seemed to have it stuck in her head that he needed to be treated like a young child. She was assessing his needs right now. “Hmmmm. Are you wearing anything right now under your pants?”
He froze, realizing that his not wearing a brief now seemed stupid. But best be honest, he thought: I bet this lady could tell. “Nothing right now,” he said, trying to think quickly. “That’s why I came: because I ran out.”
She clucked at him reprovingly. This boy indeed wasn’t too bright. First the big words, and now an apparent inability to care effectively for his problem. Perhaps, she thought, I’d better do the thinking for both of us. Well, if that’s what it takes to get control of this boy’s incontinence. It seemed as though she was finding herself being more and more aggressive taking care of the needs of her incontinent customers, especially the younger men who wandered into her shop. But that was fine: she knew how to take care of them, and if she couldn’t, she knew someone who certainly could.
This boy clearly needed some direction. “Okay, well, we’ll get you all squared away, but first things first. With a problem like yours, we’ll need to get you into something right now so you don’t have an accident while we’re deciding, or on your ride home.” She paused to check his reaction. He looked a little uncomfortable with her apparently taking charge, but he didn’t say anything. And since this was really *not* the time to discuss who should make the decisions (she didn’t want to deal with an accident here), she went right on, in a tone of voice she would have used for a toddler:
“The reason, of course, is that someone who pees and poops in his pants needs to wear a diaper all the time. All the time,” she repeated with emphasis. “Otherwise, you could have an accident right now, which would be embarrassing and harder to clean up than a wet or messy diaper. So we need to put one on right now, without arguing. If you’re a good boy and put a diaper on, then we can talk afterward and decide what you’d like to wear in the future.”
She watched him closely for signs of resistance. He was still looking uncomfortable, shifting his weight nervously, but he was quiet and looked like he had understood. She made a mental note to keep treating him like a young child, as it seemed to be very effective. She went on.
“Luckily, I always keep a couple samples in the back, for emergencies like this. You can use the storeroom to change.” Without waiting for a reply, she smiled, took his hand, and led him quickly to a door marked “Employees Only.” He looked a little alarmed but was being compliant.
In fact, though, Doug wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his composure. Somehow he’d convinced this lady that he was an imbecile and that she needed to get a diaper on him. This was so much more than he’d ever actually dreamed could happen that he didn’t know what to feel. Excited, of course, but frightened. Would she diaper him? Was there anyone else in the back room? What was he getting himself into? No, he thought, that’s ridiculous. This is just an odd business transaction by a grandmotherly lady who is being misled. It’s funny and thrilling, but hardly dangerous. As he would later find, this was completely false. Some might argue that he could at this point still have escaped what was to happen to him, but this is probably not true. Nor is it even relevant. He had no inkling that with every complacent step he was getting closer and closer to fearful prospect of having his lifelong fantasy become a lifelong reality.
He needn’t have worried about one thing, though. She wasn’t planning on diapering him. As she walked him down a back hall to a doorway marked “CLEAN SUPPLIES,” she said, “Now do you put your own diapers on at home? You do? Okay, well, why don’t you try to put the brief on yourself, then, and see how you do.” She opened the door with one of many keys she had dangling from a large keychain, and led the way into the room. It was partially full with many crates and boxes such as you’d expect in a drugstore.
She walked over to a shelf with several plastic packages it and rummaged through them until she found one marked, “BRIEF, LARGE–ADULT DIAPERS,” from which she pulled a large plastic disposible. She also picked up a container of baby powder and brought both over to him. As he tentatively accepted them, she said, “Now I’ll just wait outside while you put it on. I don’t know what you do at home, but I recommend lots of powder. It’s hot out, and you’ll appreciate it later. When you’re done, just open the door, and I’ll come in and check to make sure it’s on correctly. That’s very important, you know. So come get me before you pull your pants up, okay?”
She quickly stepped out and closed the door, leaving him alone with a diaper and powder in hand. Once again he questioned himself about whether he wasn’t already in too deep. But it almost doesn’t matter, he thought to himself. She probably won’t even let me out of here now without a diaper. Boy, this is great. I’m way too good at lying for my own good.
He sighed, and was about to unbuckle his pants when there was a sharp knock on the door followed by the lady poking her head in, and seeing him still dressed and holding the diaper, said, “Are you okay? Need help?”
He shook his head firmly. She frowned slightly, and said, “Okay, but hurry it up. We can’t waste time with you not in diapers. I’ll check back in another minute or two, and if you’re not done, I’ll give you a hand.” She shut the door again.
So now, of course, he hurried. He definitely wasn’t psychologically prepared today to be diapered by someone else. It was too sudden. He unfolded the diaper and set it down on the cold cement floor. He couldn’t put it on standing up; this he knew from experience. So he unbuckled his pants and pulled them down around his ankles, and, glancing needlessly around, did the same to his underpants. He sprinkled the diaper with powder and then gingerly sat down on it. He pulled the diaper up between his legs, and quickly taped it rather haphazardly. It wasn’t a good job, but he wanted to be dressed again by the time the lady came back. He stood up and pulled up his underpants and pants over the diaper. The diaper fit well, and it was fairly bulky, though he’d made thicker ones for himself on occasion using pads for stuffers. As he was rebuckling his pants, she burst through the door unannounced.
She appraised the new bulk between his legs, then strode over to him, saying, cheerfully, “Whoa! Slow down, cowboy! Let’s just check the job you did before you buckle up.” She reached toward his pants with purpose, brushing aside his hands, which had moved protectively toward his groin in a meek attempt to intercede. Before he knew it his pants and underpants were back down around his ankles, and she was crouched in from of him examining his poor handiwork. He felt the blood drain from his head and began to feel dizzy. He felt like he should object, but he felt weak and sort of lost. He couldn’t think of anything to say in a moment like this. So he stood there as she inspected his diaper.
“Hmmmm,” she commented. “On straight, and not backwards, but the taping leaves a bit to be desired. Hold this,” she said brusquely, as she undid the tapes on one side. She tightened and adjusted both sides, afterward slipping her fingers well inside the front and back of the diaper on both sides to check the fit. He couldn’t help squirming a little, and had to be told to stand still.
Finally she was satisfied, and showed him what she had done so he could do it better the next time. She doubted it would help, though. Sometimes these slower kids just needed a lot of practice, she thought.
She was about to pull his pants back up for him when she saw his underpants, white briefs, around his ankles. She laughed.
“Well, you hardly need *those* on now, do you? Let’s get those off so they don’t get all stretched out over the diaper, okay?” And without waiting for a response, she untied his shoes, had him slip them off, and pulled the pants and underpants off, then replaced the pants and shoes, even tying them for him. “You said your wetting and soiling problem is only temporary, right? Well, then, we’ll let you have these back for several months down the line.” Humiliated as he’d never been before, he took his underpants from her and balled them up in his hand. His shorts pockets were now too tight for him to tuck them in there. He’d have to carry them home in his hand. Could this get more embarrassing?
She didn’t notice his distress, however, for she was nearly out the storeroom door. “Come on,” she called. “Time to get you something for later.”
He tried to follow at her speed, but found the usual difficulty walking. He had to waddle slightly, but he didn’t think it was that noticeable. When she got to the door back to the main store, though, she turned and watched him as she waited. He was pretty cute, she thought. Actually, she thought they were all cute the way they had to waddle like babies. And to be honest, she had to admit that part of her liked babying them: she loved the diapers, the powder and lotions, the smells, the mothering. But that was not why she did it, and it was not why she’d set up the ICPs with Mrs. Warren. Anyway, she knew he’d be self-conscious, so she tried not to smile at his obvious struggle to walk normally.
He reached her in a moment, and as they returned to the store, he glanced around nervously to see if anyone was there to notice the newly-diapered boy waddle in with his old underpants in hand. There was only an older man clear at the other end of the store; he probably couldn’t see this far. But then he noticed a tall brunette in the corner back and to the right, near the pharmacy. She looked like she was in her orties, was strongly built, and she appeared to be watching him very closely. He thought he saw the older lady he was with catching the tall lady’s eye for a moment, and maybe even nod at her, but he couldn’t really tell, and he told himself he was just being too self-conscious and paranoid. He took one last look at the lady before he turned down the diaper aisle, and noticed a curl of a smile at one end of her mouth, as if she were amused. He turned away and focused his attention to the shelf his guide was presenting to him.
This was where he had longed to be from the moment he had walked in the store. He longed to be left alone here to read the packages and look at pictures. But she was here, and very much in control of his shopping.
“Okay, this shouldn’t be hard,” she said. “The most important thing is, is cost very important to you?”
He nodded with conviction. He was basically a student living on a student’s budget.
She nodded back thoughtfully. “Well, then I think we’ll try you with a package of those generics you’re wearing. I thought the fit was good. Are they comfortable?”
He nodded stiffly. He wasn’t used to discussing his diaper comfort with others.
“Good. They are good diapers, just as good as the name brands, in my opinion. Try those, and see how they do for you.” She picked out a huge package of the generics–again he noticed the label, “BRIEF, LARGE–ADULT DIAPERS” in large block lettering on the side. That would be fun to carry to his car and inside his apartment. He took it from her, and followed her up to the cash register at the front of the store.
He set the package on the counter as she rang it up, setting his underpants next to it on the counter for a moment, while he pulled out his wallet, careful to hunt for and pay with cash so that he wouldn’t leave a paper trail. She watched him find the correct change from the little change compartment in his wallet. He gave her the money, and she handed him a receipt. Then she leaned over the counter and said to him in that condescending tone again,
“I think this will get easier for you with time. Now, I think these diapers will help you with your problem, but you’ve got to wear them all the time for them to help. You hear me?” She looked at him sternly. “All the time. See how you like them, and when you only have a few left–BEFORE you run out, come back in and we’ll get you some more. Now don’t come back in here without a diaper on, or I’ll do more to your bottom in that back storeroom than just put it in a diaper. Okay?”
He nodded. Whatever, he thought. Just get me out of here. I’ve had way too much “fun” for one day. Time for my get-away.
“Okay. See you in a couple days.”
He grabbed his hard-won purchase and underpants and left the store, only noticing once he was outside that she hadn’t even offered him a bag.
As he walked away, he let out a deep breath. That had to have been the most amazing fantasy ever. And he’d navigated his way through it perfectly, coming away unscathed, with a bag of diapers to boot! Pretty good, he thought, for his first time. For his ONLY time, he thought to himself. He’d not do that again. It was just too anxiety-provoking. But he’d done it today, and now he was safe. He did feel sorry for the lady whom he had deceived so perfectly, however. But only briefly.
As she watched him waddle away from her, out to his car and climb in, Mrs. Sheffield reflected on the odd number of totally incontinent young men she had as clients. She’d noticed a preponderance of men as soon as Mrs. Warren had convinced her to stock more of the briefs, and it seemed that as they continued to expand their product offerings, more and more came in. Most were fairly resistent to her intrusion, but she didn’t care. She was actually a very nice, compassionate older lady who always felt sorry, first and foremost, for her clients. But her experiences with a “late-blooming” son years before had convinced her that incontinence was a problem that needed to be treated.
Her son had had several fairly public accidents in elementary school that had led to other kids making fun of him. She hadn’t wanted to diaper him, thinking that would make things worse, but as he grew and the teasing continued well past the time when he never wet his pants anymore, she began to blame herself for his being socially ostracized. She’d vowed to herself, though she hadn’t seen the implications for her drugstore business at the time, that if she ever found an opportunity to step in and help an incontinent person again, she would. At any age, she thought, diapering was far more benign than even occasional accidents, and she had seen the damage firsthand and had to live with the guilt. Now, no incontinent boy left her sight without a diaper on, even if they objected. “They just don’t know,” she whispered to herself, “what the alternative is. Owning up to their need for diapers is the best thing they could do for themselves.”
It was this attitude that made Mrs. Sheffield run her business the way she did. And it was this attitude, she couldn’t know, which had doomed many young men to lives of unhappiness and even far worse social isolation than she could have anticipated. But, then, at least her intentions were good. It was actually Mrs. Warren who was much more to blame.
She looked down at the name and address she had copied down quickly as this latest boy had opened his wallet to pay her for what he thought was the last purchase he would make from her. He was wrong, of course, though he wouldn’t know this for several days. Doug. Doug Easton. He’d seemed nice. She wrote a note for herself to make sure she followed up on him. Nice boy, but he needed her.
Copyright (c) 1995 by Babydoc.