Letter 9
My Landlady Loves Her New 'Baby'
from Jeff
Dear Susan,
I am in a difficult position, and I am writing for advice. I’d rather
not give my name, city or state, and hope you understand my need for discretion.
I would also like your answer at your site if that too is acceptable, and
apologize again for this odd request I’ve made.
I should add, and the reason I’m sending this letter of sorts, is that
your site appears to be one of the few that takes correspondence of this
nature. More importantly, you often provide both thoughtful and insightful
answers. I’m hoping that will be the case with me.
First a bit of background. I’m a student, first year and majoring
in economics. That last doesn’t really matter much, but I think my penchant
for numbers was one of the reasons I actually got myself into this. Anyway
rooms, of any sort, around our campus are about eighty percent of demand
so the competition for anything with a door and a roof is fierce.
I was just like everyone else looking and, in fact, was spending a small
fortune renting a small room, week to week, in a rather run-down motor inn,
too far from the school. To say I was desperate for a place would
be grossly understating that need. Which is also one of the reasons
I’m now in this predicament.
It was an ad placed for a room that caught my eye, and only because it
had the word “incontinent” within that first line. I’ve been scanning
ads in three papers daily since I got here but that one was odd to say the
least. It read: “Room to let! Incontinent student preferred.
Gender not an issue. Includes furnished room and board. Willing
to adjust rental for light maintenance or house work.”
I should note that on any given ad that seems reasonable, it’s either already
gone when the paper comes out, or there is a line of applicants that is
already too long, no matter how quickly you arrive. Anyway, I called,
mostly to verify that ad, and also to perhaps talk my way into that room
in spite of the fact I’m not incontinent.
It turned out that a few have already called and for the same reason, and
no, the woman noted she was not willing to wave that incontinent
part. She is, she noted quite openly, incontinent herself, and simply
wouldn’t be comfortable with anyone that wasn’t. So that was pretty
much that except she says she’s had the room on the market for about a week.
A room for rent for an entire week is unheard of in these parts, and I’m
suddenly focused on that as my only real hope at the moment. My though
was to go out, purchase a package of disposables, take a few out, so it
looked like I was using them, then show her those very things as proof if
need be. I also needed to know a bit about them generally.
A fib in the making, and I was feeling guilty over that, but I was almost
willing to do anything for that room. Ironically that’s exactly the
case as it were. I mustered up enough courage to ask a sales clerk,
at a local pharmacy, which “type” of disposable might suit someone like
me for “night incontinence”. I could feel myself blushing as I said
it.With her help I got the appropriate package.
To be frank that was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to do, or
perhaps the second most because I still had that interview. Anyway,
I took about a third of those diapers out and left them in a separate bag,
and then called “Helen”.
I got that interview within an hour, and found her place within fifteen
minutes. Helen was cordial, gregarious and pretty for a woman her age,
which I guessed was near the mid-forties, although I’m not good at guessing
such things.
I mentioned the disposables by brand and of course lied. I did say
that I didn’t wet nightly and sometimes went days without doing so but,
on occasion, I did wet my bed. That suited her, and we went off onto
the details of renting, living arrangements and the place itself.
It really was a nice place although a bit more feminine than I’d like,
with quite a lot of pinks and flounces, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The room, like the house, was stately, well cared for and comfortable-looking.
It held a writing desk, a day bed, a fairly large closet, with a large dresser
and mirror dominating the only other bare wall.
There was a door in that room, connecting to the hall bathroom, and a large
window facing a decades-old tree. With the exception of the ruffled
overlay on the day bed, the doll sitting on it, and the fussy, feminine
curtains I could easily be very comfortable in that place.
We did again discuss “our” incontinence a bit, and luckily I’d done a minor
bit of research on causes, telling her mine was stress-related. Stress-related
and only acute since I’d started college, and hopefully less so as I got
use to the changes.
Her’s, she said, was from an operation some time ago that left her slightly
incontinent during the day and slightly more at night when she wasn’t conscious
of her urges. She was very casual about it, and accepting of my reasons,
and we struck a deal right there in the hall. Ten minutes later we
were sitting at the kitchen table sorting out the paper work.
As you might imagine, I was ecstatic when I went back to that motel, settled
my rent, and left happily, never to return. I did give up that doll,
which she agreed wasn’t exactly necessary for me to keep on the bed.
Other than that I settled in quickly and, again, “happily”.
Our first day together, since it was Saturday, was filled with backgrounds,
a tour of her garden which was mature, beautiful, and definitely where I’d
spend a lot of time for homework, before going on to what chores I might
do.
I was already renting for about two thirds of my budget, and that could
be far less with the things that I could help with. Actually I began
fixing a gate while she gardened, and some more small talk took us to dinner
time. If there is any other advantage to be had in this, it was her
cooking, and that was indescribable.
I’d been eating 'fast food' it for weeks and our schools cafeteria is only
a notch or two above that, so you can imagine what a home cooked meal was
like. I nearly cried, in a figurative way, over that first bite of
meat loaf. Not to mention the pleasure of the ambiance of a home, and
all of those “life” trimmings that you don’t have in a motor lodge.
It was wonderful, and that played on my guilt over having lied to her.
I really did feel bad about that, and promised myself I’d correct this part
when she grew more comfortable with me. That was her issue, she noted,
since she wore diapers twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
She simply wanted to feel comfortable with someone living in close proximity
and it made perfectly good sense in that context.
Which all culminated one evening with her hint that she was going to get
ready for bed, then make cocoa if I’d like. It was her habit, and
I wasn’t required to join her if I didn’t want to. I would, I’d said, but
didn’t miss the hint about “getting ready for bed”. I agonized over
that for a time, and in my room, wondering if I should actually diaper myself
and of course knew she would notice if I didn’t.
I honestly hadn’t planned on doing that in this plan of mine. I mean
I was simply going to drop the “unused” diapers off at a Good Will bin and
purchase new ones in a sequence that made sense.
I decided for the sake of credibility that wearing one of those disposables
would be better than not, and swallowed a big share of my ego for that sake.
I also felt a bit less guilty over having had to lie, and this sort of penance
eased some of that. In any event I showered, and dressed and have
never felt more self-conscious in my life as I returned in my robe.
It was that crinkle that I’d never heard before, not to mention the odd
feeling of having a diaper between your legs. That girl at the pharmacy
had sold me a “night time” type diaper, given my statements and “capacity”,
and they were very thick. Too thick I thought, walking out and feeling
that odd movement at the back.
I was sure this was her first sort of test of me, and that I had passed
as she made our cups of cocoa. We had them on her verandah, and soon
I was enjoying the night. It was peaceful. A night without horns,
domestic screams, or that occasional prostitute that insisted I was lonely,
was very welcome.
I did, in fact sleep in it, and when morning hit made another decision
for the sake of that credibility. I’d reasoned that the diaper was
already used beyond donating it and if I tossed it out in the garbage she
might “check”. Actually she noted, that morning, saying as much and
that she’d put a pail in the bathroom with a top on it. That pretty
much settled that.
It also, in a subtle sort of way, locked me into actually having
to “fill” that pail, and do so with diapers that had been used, and worse,
do so daily. The fact was, that diaper pail was full by week's end.
It also, on the bright side and in another odd way, completely eliminated
me having to confess that I wasn’t actually incontinent. That lie
to get me into the house was now the truth of this situation.
Only it didn’t stop there, and if it had it would
have simply continued on like that without much thought, nor this need to
write. Actually, it was a discussion about using disposables that brought
about the change and that little play on words as I think on it. Seven
disposable diapers for an adult are a rather sizable mass, and that diaper
pail filled fairly quickly.
I was also responsible for my room and “major” cleaning such as screens,
her fireplace and so on. She was responsible for the house proper
and my bathroom. She also took on the responsibility of taking care
of those 'used' diapers. She wanted to dispose of them properly, because
disposable nappies are not biodegradable.
I shared her concerns I said. In response she suggested cloth diapers,
and waterproof panties, just like she wore. A request I could
hardly deny.
Sewing diapers or making panties out of plastic is hardly an effort for
someone with those skills, and by that first Monday, after our talk, she’d
proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. I came home from school to face
my first pile of baby things, sitting neatly on my dresser.
The Sunday before, I’d given her, on request, my thigh measurements, my
waist front to back and around and left it at that. There were twelve
diapers and six pair of what I can only call baby pants, because that’s what
they looked like. There were two pink, two baby blue, and two white
pairs. They were enormous, and generously bloomered, and three even had lacy
ruffles all over the bottom. She explained that she had bought these originally
for herself, but she didn't think that I would mind wearing them. There was
also a small, ornate porcelain dish with a half dozen stainless steel diaper
pins, sitting next to a new canister of baby powder, and bottle of baby oil.
I had suddenly felt trapped in our conversation and now more so, and in
the oddest way. I was also fighting a frown to show how pleased I was
at her thoughtfulness. She was thrilled over her efforts, suggesting
only that I perhaps try them at my earliest convenience for fit. Her
concern, she noted, was over the leg openings and that they not be too tight
on my thighs after a nights wear.
What she really wanted or seemed to want was was for me to go in and diaper
myself, but that was the last thing I wanted to do. I’d gotten use
to wearing those disposables, but wearing ruffled pastel baby pants was very
different.
She’d made the diapers very thick for obvious reasons, and that didn’t
include that part that went down the middle: a soaker, she’d noted proudly
although what that really meant was more bulk between the legs. A
lot more bulk I noticed when I pinned them on.
If there was a more awkward moment in my life I couldn’t bring it to memory
as I pinned myself into my first real diaper. Nor did it get any better
with those baby pants I stepped into. I felt humiliated, embarrassed,
and extremely self-conscious by the time I gathered enough courage to walk
back out of my room.
I felt like my bottom was a foot thicker as it pushed against my robe and
it appeared that way when I tied my robe around the middle. It made
what I wore very “obvious”. She asked me how they fitted, and
said that she would like to check the legs, and all this motherly attention
didn’t help my ego at all.
That trapped feeling was overwhelming, and only because I’d actually
done all of this to myself. She was simply trying to help, and had
that in mind. In my mind I was practically a baby, and looking far too close
to a fussily diapered baby girl.
I actually had to start using that baby powder and oil for the same reasons
people apply those things to babies. Which hints at the state I was
falling into because, to my horror, I’d actually wet before I woke some
nights later. I thought I’d only dreamed that moment, but when I woke
it was clear that I hadn’t.
When it happened again, I was nearly panicked that this incontinence was
becoming a reality for me, or that I’d be so for the rest of my life.
It scared me so much I was even considering moving to rid myself of that
risk.
There was the rational part, and the irrational part, and a lot of self-analysis
in between. I am not a psychologist, but I recognized the fact that
somewhere in some part of my brain I was growing fond of wearing soft cuddly
baby clothes, or at least getting very used to them. That in itself
was difficult to admit, and much of my fear.
I was getting use to the feel of them, and whatever psychological connection
they had, and finding myself even getting “ready” for bed far earlier than
was necessary. All of this was reason enough to stop while I could,
and I was worried that I might not. Or might not want to ...
My best course of action, and the one I most hoped for, was to confess
to her this charade, beg her forgiveness, and plead to stay. As it
happens that is exactly what I did, and why I’m writing. I brought
the topic up, over our nightly cocoa, and there was a clear amount of remorse
in me to make it very clear I was sorry.
Her silence during my confession wasn’t readable, but she allowed me to
work my way to that part about staying on anyway. And, for the record,
I did beg. I begged and had no regrets over that, because it had
long ago become more of a home than any I’d known till then, and I said that
as well.
What shocked me was her own confession when I finally finished. She confessed
that the crinkle sound that came when I moved about in my thick diapers
and pretty pastel baby pants, and the image it conjured up of me in diapers,
was exciting to her. So much so that it scared her almost as much as
it had been scaring me.
That’s when she asked if I would be willing to at least wear them “on occasion”.
She honestly couldn’t tell me why, because she wasn’t sure herself, but
she very sure that that was what she wanted.
It changed the whole conversation to something completely different.
I’d confessed and she confessed, and then there was an odd bit of silence,
as we both sat there trying to figure out what the connection is, between
thick diapers and feelings of relaxed happiness and security. I wasn’t
sure I even wanted to discuss it, yet very sure that I did have those feelings.
We are, as humans, so complex that it amazes me that anyone dare call themselves
normal. I thought I was, and she seemed to be, but suddenly there
is this or those odd things between us. Her smile helped, and I couldn’t
help but smile back and, like kids, we snickered a bit of cocoa down our
chins.
If someone had said I’d be doing this I would have thought them crazy,
but suddenly my attitude had evolved almost past my concerns, and frankly
that is what was worrying me. Am I, or am I becoming an adult baby,
if that’s the right term; and, if so, do I risk having a fetish that will
ultimately take this too far in actually making me into something akin to
a baby?
I also make note of that because she’s just recently begun actually
getting me ready for bed (diapering), and that I’ve just begun nursing a
pacifier, or dummy, as she does so. That first by her request, and
the other a moment of weakness, on my part, when we came across those pacifiers
while shopping one day.
I suppose I should say, before closing and at the risk of changing your
answer, that the feeling of motherly love and nurturing I get from it, has
become one of the most wonderful parts of my existence. Helen has also
made it clear it’s become an important aspect of her life as well.
So there it is, and I hope enough for an opinion or at least your thoughts
on this. I suspect I already know your answer, but it truly would
be helpful to have someone more experienced in this sort of thing to give
an opinion.
My heartfelt thanks for this opportunity to write. I look forward
to your insight.
Jeff (and Helen)
I think that you should just melt into being Helen's baby, and stop all
of this fretting and worrying. You have discovered your self how lovely soft,
cuddly babying from a sympathetic mummy is, so why fight it? And buy any clothes
and baby items from the source that supplies the best quality, even if it
is outside your own country. You must have heard of the economic benefits
of absolute and comparative advantage.
Susan