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Circumcised                                                                                                                                    by Les Lea

I was ten when mum decided I should be circumcised. I’d become increasingly lazy when carrying out my visits to the bathroom. She was fed up with me missing the toilet bowl and I often departed unaware that I’d left a puddle of pee where I stood. This was because I had a very loose foreskin that, if I didn’t retract right back, often covered my pee-hole and sent trickles in different directions. Some pee hit the water so I assumed it all had but I didn’t check and a small (occasionally large) pool could often be left festering in front of the bowl and not in it.

Also, as I was getting older, a lot of ‘stuff’ was beginning to gather under it, which in turn caused me some mild irritation.

Mum would often say. “Terry, you’re at that age where these things matter, you must take much more care.”

However, her constant nagging only made me care less and I became careless... I was ten and beginning to get insolent, not doing as I was told and thinking I knew best. I became a bit of a show off, not through any kind of theatrical talent but showing my contempt at authority to impress my school mates.

As far as mum was concerned the final straw came when we had my Aunt Jen, Uncle Mark and their three children visiting. Of course, I’d used the loo last and uncaringly I’d left a rather large pee-slick on the tiled bathroom floor. My four year old cousin Tammy went and slipped in the puddle and banged herself pretty badly on the bowl. Of course her mum and dad thought she’d left the mess and although sympathetic to her injury blamed her for being negligent.

Mum let it go, not saying it was my fault but letting me know by her look that I should volunteer my culpability. I know mum was losing her patience but she never shouted, nor did she ever punish me, so I thought I was on relatively safe ground. However, it took a few of her fiercest stares for me to get the message and though reluctant I confessed my sins (I might have been becoming rebellious but not that rebellious).

I saw the relief on mum’s face when I confessed (not a complete lost cause) and a strange feeling ran through my body. For the first time in quite some time, I’d made her proud of me... or so I hoped... and I liked the feeling. I was ten years old, I wanted to rebel and show I was growing up but that approval, that smile, made me briefly reassess the way I was acting.

Alas, my aunt and uncle were furious that they’d blamed their sweet daughter, whilst mum, sensing an atmosphere, sent me to my room and was not allowed to continue to play with their two older boys Phil and Kevin. I’d been bragging to them that I could do anything before mum’s scary stare had made me lose a little face with my confession.  However, they were equally fascinated and wanted to know why my foreskin caused so much havoc and sought to have a peek (apparently theirs not giving a moment’s worry). It didn’t happen because the next time they saw me I was minus that particular accessory.


As I left the room I could hear, in her anger, my aunt (who is mum’s older sister) lash out at what had happened and told mum in no uncertain terms that I should be in nappies if I peed indiscriminately, leaving puddles everywhere. Mum didn’t react badly (she never lost her temper) but quietly said that she already had plans to sort that particular problem out.

She’d read that circumcision was healthier for a young man and that girls preferred a cut penis, whether any of this was true, that’s how it was sold to me. I wasn’t taken to hospital instead a Jewish medical friend of mum’s, who said he’d done hundreds of such procedures, volunteered his services.

I hated the idea of hospital and any kind of operation, so, it’d be done in private and mum even swore that it would be “...but a minor inconvenience”. Oh, and yes, it wasn’t a painful procedure because “...babies had it done and they turned out okay”.

Mum lied - There was a lot of blood, I was very sore and my poor little penis looked butchered.


With my penis cut and bandaged I found going to the toilet a harrowing experience. What was worse, at night, after keeping my bladder full because of the pain when I did pee, on several occasions I involuntarily wet the bed as I slept. Mum decided that until my penis healed, I should wear a nappy and argued that the soft fabric would be less irritating against my skin and I’d probably heal quicker.

I wasn’t happy about this idea believing it was only because my aunt made such a song and dance about my peeing on the floor. However, my wounded penis was quite painful and I disliked waking up to a soaked bed so it seemed a temporary way round my soggy problem.  Also, whether it was because of the nappy reference from her sister or not, mum had probably decided what would happen so really I had little choice.

This time mum didn’t lie because the fabric was nice and soft against my skin; the padding keeping me snug so my injured thingy didn’t bounce about. Also, the antiseptic creams and various fragrant lotions that area was subjected to were very soothing. In fact, I was quite grateful for the cushion of relief it all offered. Because my penis was really sore, it was too painful to wear jeans or trousers, and although I didn’t feel comfortable about it, for those first few days I wondered around the house wearing very little below the waist apart from the ease of my padding.

When I first thought about having to wear a nappy I assumed it was mum punishing me for my behaviour and to possibly placate her sister, as Aunt Jen had been quite caustic about what she thought of a ten year old still peeing on the floor. However, any seething resentment that I perhaps should have aimed at mum just didn’t happen because the nappy was a great help. Mum became very protective, perhaps, overly protective of me and went out of her way to keep me happy; my wellbeing of the upmost importance.

Before the operation I would have shirked off any attempt from mum to coddle me. I was ten and growing up and didn’t need constant attention. However, after the messy business I felt wounded so quite pleased mum was lavishing all her attention on me. She soothed my soreness with oily creams and in truth I liked not fighting with her over everything and nothing.

I don’t think I was that aware of it but things had changed as a result of my lost skin.

Waking up in a soaked nappy was strangely a comfort because despite everything, my sore willie felt less sore lying in a damp fabric cradle. Whichever way mum had attached that night’s padding felt like it was doing its job because the experience was different. Together with a pair of plastic pants, come the morning my attention was centred on a piece of soggy material not a piece of my missing willie.

She often said that despite everything I looked happy in a nappy. It was a catchphrase that kept on repeating in my head time after time and at the most inopportune moments. It was an ear worm that once started never seemed to stop and I’d find it gnawing away as I tried to get to sleep. However, no matter how annoying that was, I was always grateful come the morning when my night time awkward insulation had done its duty and saved me from a repeatedly soaked bed.


Despite the initial painkillers I was taking ‘it’ remained tender and swollen and became a bit of a problem when I returned to school as I certainly didn’t intend on wearing a nappy to class.

Mum saw that I was struggling to keep my underpants dry so came up with some extra padding sewn into them for me to wear. Strangely, as I was under no pressure to pee because of being stood in front of a toilet, I could let it out in small, relatively painless spurts when and where I felt the need. Often just letting it trickle into the folds of the extra fabric where it was quickly swallowed up. So I wore wet pants regularly whilst I recuperated, and, despite my reluctance on wearing them, mum’s insistence on slick white vinyl pants were the key in preventing any visible leakage.

Nevertheless, the problem continued at night, even after my newly circumcised penis had all but healed, because I was still waking up wringing wet... so to combat the nightly deluge the wearing of night time stuffing continued.  


I was a little traumatised by the operation to say the least. I was taking an age to mentally recover and thought my recently pared-back boy part looked strange and inflamed and worried it would always be that way. With the constant reminder every time I looked at my red willie I felt responsible for its current state and, although it was the case I no longer left puddles in front of the toilet bowl when I did make use of the facilities, I remembered that if only I’d taken more care I wouldn’t be in such a position.      

Meanwhile, I think mum seemed to connect the reason I was wetting to the pain and subsequent agony I’d been subjected to. I don’t know whether this was the case or not, but despite her ten year old boy needing nappies at night, she didn’t get angry about their prolonged use. In fact, she noticed that with the loss of my foreskin I also lost a lot of the insolence I had been beginning to accrue.

The real reason - I felt damaged and wanted my mummy to look after me.

I wondered why mum didn’t take me to hospital to have it checked out but I think she was disappointed/embarrassed/guilty about what the ‘doctor’ had done. I had nothing and no one to compare my situation to. I had no idea if this was how it went when a boy was circumcised and that I was just one of many. However, what I did know... her ‘friend’ disappeared from our radar completely. I don’t know if mum had words or what but I never saw him again. Good.


The comfort of wearing a soft thick nappy at night weirdly seemed to be the only relief I could count on. So, despite not wearing a nappy since I was three, the thought that I had to wear one to prevent any apparent complications, and soaked bed, seemed exasperating but inevitable.

Although my logic wasn’t following any sensible path I became obsessed with keeping that area clean, covered and worried constantly that it just ‘didn’t look right’. Although I thought, and mum fostered that notion, I needed to wear a nappy to fight off any infections, what I really intended was to keep it hidden. I was ashamed of it always looking scarlet and deformed. It was ugly and I hated it and I’d brought it on myself because I peed all over the floor and in doing so had brought about the injury of a little girl. Guilt is a strange thing - how many other people might I have injured by my inconsiderate toilet habits? I needed that extra thick material to prevent anyone seeing it and also to avoid harming the rest of mankind.


At the start of all this I didn’t have much of a conversation about wearing nappies with mum. She just never let me out of them at night and often joked it was advisable to be better protected during the day if we went anywhere ‘special’. Although to begin with I wasn’t all that keen on going outside wearing a thicker nappy, mum made it seem that it was me who was making a big deal about it and no one else would even notice.

She asked me if I’d been in the least bit bothered by wearing a nappy at night. 

As my foreskinless penis was healing I had to admit that it had been of benefit - so, no, it hadn’t been a problem.

“And” she asked, “wearing one now... is that a problem?” She was quite intense and I found my days of lying under such scrutiny were becoming a thing of the past.

I was wearing one at that moment, having just woken up after another soggy night, and in truth it had been soft and gentle with the plastic pants holding me in some degree of cosiness.

“No, not really it’s just...” I shrugged.

“Well then, what’s the problem? If there isn’t a problem, stop making difficulties when there aren’t any.”

After all the jokiness mum seemed a bit annoyed that I was questioning her but I also detected she was a bit worried (although she never said anything to me about it) that it was taking so long to repair. However, she was correct about the padding; it was keeping me from any excess dribbles and made things nice and comfy down there. Perhaps weirdly I wasn’t unhappy about having to wear a nappy and it was at this point I psychologically began to associate these two words together - ‘Happy’ and ‘Nappy’.

One morning I came down stairs to the kitchen, mum was just finishing pegging out the washing and my soaked nappy and plastic pants hung low between my thighs. It looked a lovely day and as I opened the door for mum because she was coming back carrying the laundry basket, a cool breeze took me by surprise and there in front of her I felt a sudden spurt into my already saturated nappy. The only thing was I couldn’t stop and mum watched as my nappy expand whilst it soaked up even more of my involuntary pee.

“It’s a good job you’re wearing that,” she said pointing to my glistening plastic pants, “otherwise had you been wearing your school uniform yet... it would’ve been soaked.”

I’d been rooted to the spot but incredibly embarrassed at peeing so publicly and it being witnessed by mum. I couldn’t think of an excuse or even what to say so I simply felt ashamed. Mum pointed upstairs.

“Okay, take them off and I’ll get them in the next load... let’s get you ready for school.”

Meanwhile, she’d bought a set of different coloured and loose-fitting shorts she thought wouldn’t put pressure around my injury like my school trousers and jeans had been doing. Since the operation I found such items very annoying to wear, tight and at times uncomfortably rubbing against my thicker underpants, so these baggy shorts came as something of a welcome relief.


Part 2

There is just me and mum and we are incredibly close (more so now I suppose). Yet despite my ten year old independence it appeared she was back in control, if in fact she’d ever lost it? When I was younger mum easily talked me into most things and it was no different now. Because I wasn’t in any discomfort she must have noticed I was less irritated (and irritating) when only wearing a nappy. And because they weren’t causing me any harm, and my lacklustre objections were dismissed, I found myself wearing one more often especially when mum spoilt me.    

Now I have to admit this was something new.


A few weeks after the circumcision, mum unexpectedly began to give me treats. To begin with when I was healing she kept up an array of events that took me completely by surprise. This could be a meal at a fun restaurant, a visit to the cinema, trip to the fair or some other indulgence. However, because we were going out she didn’t want me to get embarrassed by accidently staining my pants so insisted that I wore some padded defence.  

At first I complained saying that I didn’t have such accidents during the day it was only at night. Of course, I’d had wet undies during the day when supposedly on the mend but she insisted we simply should not take any chances if I wanted the treat. Like I’d always done, I gave in to mum’s powers of persuasion, although it was always done in a way that suggested it was my brainchild.

This was something mum was very good at. She’d suggest something and then give you the credit for coming up with the idea, which she would afterwards enthuse about. It got to a stage where I was coming up with every plan without realising where that source had sprung from. So, when it came to having to wear more protection I really did think it was because I’d thought it was a good solution.

This was partly due to guilt. I know I hadn’t done the operation (I had a different feeling regarding him) but my laziness and general taking-things-for-granted had led mum to such drastic action. This was my fault so I couldn’t object to mum doing her best to make me as comfortable as possible. She seemed happier once I was wearing protection when going out; regarding it as a necessity so therefore shouldn’t be worried about it.

Despite everything I had to admit that wearing loose-fitting shorts was a lot more comfortable than any of my school wear or jeans. Even my jogging pants weren’t as comfy as the shorts and didn’t hide the outline of my protection any better. I was back to bare legs after less than a year of wearing long trousers to school. So, after the initial worry about wearing the padding where it might be seen, I was encouraged by the lack of reaction from anyone else to not give it too much thought. Mum was adamant that under the shorts no one could tell and that worrying what other might think was a fool’s game.

She knew that I was a little uncertain about wearing shorts back to school but showed me some photos of much older boys who wore shorts as part of their school uniform. In fact, the entire school seemed to wear grey shorts and they all appeared to be at ease in doing so. What I didn’t know at the time, and only found out later, was that those schools were in a lot warmer climate than I was... so no doubt they were grateful not to have to wear long trousers in the heat.

Anyway it worked. Although my mates were surprised to see a return to them there were still a few other boys at school wearing shorts so it wasn’t like I stood out. I insisted that I actually found them much more comfy to wear. I didn’t tell them about the ‘operation’ or the fact that my thicker undies made for a more comfy time if I was wearing shorts. My choice of what was best to wear seemed to be working. I was less stressful about my ‘snip’ because I was no longer uncomfortable so wore them more often than anything else.


Something else mum noticed was that my attitude towards her changed. I’d picked up this acting tough, thoughtless attitude from a couple of my school friends as it had seemed the way to be. However, under these new circumstances I became more polite, more amenable and treated her with respect rather than the previous disdain I’d begun to assume.  

I know I did a lot off deep sighing but in the end mum got her way. There had been several nervous leaks and tell-tale damp patches that she didn’t know about, but there again, perhaps she did and that’s why she insisted on adopting a more preventative approach.

In fact, she appeared to be ahead of the game because on more than one instance, when we arrived at our ’special’ destination or eventual return home, she’d just slip her hand down the front of my nappy and let me know I was already wet. Then I’d be rushed to the nearest available space for a change and off would come my shorts, plastic pants and nappy before registering I was the slightest bit damp. She’d have me stripped, powdered and re-nappied in no time at all and look as pleased as anything once I was dry. Thankfully, she’d stopped grimacing every time she saw my aggravated looking penis.

I didn’t know of any other ten year old who had been circumcised. I also didn’t know any other ten year old who wore nappies. So simply assumed that it was how all boys who’d had a similar operation were nursed.

“There now, doesn’t that feel better?”

Was a question she always asked after a change and I replied in the affirmative with a grateful smile on my face because, well, a dry nappy means a “happy boy” (as mum often remarked)? I began to equate being a “happy boy” with being a “nappy boy” and it was difficult to shake that thought. Besides, the treats she’d showered on me since the circumcision were fantastic and I wanted them to continue.    

One late night, which for me meant around ten o’clock, I sleepily asked mum if I’d always need a nappy for bed. She let out a resigned sigh, stroked my brow, kissed my forehead and replied that I shouldn’t worry about such things as I wasn’t the only boy my age that had a bed-wetting problem... so I shouldn’t think about such things.

“There’ll come a time sweetheart,” she said wistfully, “when everything will change and you’ll look back to this time with fondness and wish you were still mummy’s sweet little cherub.”

Apprehension set in; who or what would replace me? And I began to think what I could do to maintain my position. I wanted to stay mum’s sweet little cherub and worried that soon I might not be... that thought became another major worry I fixated on; that and my scarred and sorry looking penis.

She patted my padding through the blanket and smiled as if we were having a special moment between the two of us.

“You are my only concern... and that is to keep you safe, secure and happy (Happy – Nappy).”

She ruffled my hair.

“And in return... my little sweetie-pie,” she whispered in my ear, “you make me very happy indeed.” 

The problem was, whenever she said the word ‘happy’ I heard ‘nappy’ and it was this thought that kept swirling around in my head. So, despite not answering my question she’d partially put my initial anxiety to rest, only for it to be replaced by the thought that if I didn’t maintain the way things were... things might change and not to my benefit. I was more than a little scared at what that might entail.

It wasn’t like I wet every night though in truth, I don’t think I went more than three dry nights before I’d wake up to that morning dampness where I was thankful I’d been wearing protection. It was something I came to rely on and in so doing found the layers of material more of a reassurance than a hindrance. Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy that’s all that went through my brain. That little ditty seemed more pervasive when I went to bed.


As time moved on mum said that as I was getting older I should wear coloured plastic pants rather than just the more juvenile see-thru, frosted or shiny white ones I’d been wearing. She made it sound like it was a natural progression, a rite of passage, what any growing boy would desire and wear. This fitted into my thinking that I was, despite wearing a nappy at night, growing up.

The fact that I would still be wearing protection didn’t occur to me because now my plastic pants were a nice shiny blue, red, yellow or purple... you see... grown-up colours.

Although my penis had healed I was constantly distressed by the sight of it. I felt disturbed when I viewed it, even handling it was distasteful.  I didn’t think it was a subject I could talk about with my school friends so worried incessantly and kept its deformity a secret. To me it always looked unhappy, if you can have such a thing look unhappy, and as a result I was terrified that anyone else might see it. I still wanted to keep it hidden and as far away from view as possible.  Perhaps this was why I so often ended up with a wet nappy, I couldn’t bear the thought of handling it?

Don’t get me wrong, when I healed enough, I continued to wear special thicker underpants for school and never felt pressure from mum to wear anything else. The fact was mum always prepared well in advance so night time protection was usually already laid out on my bed and sometimes, and I wasn’t unhappy about this, when I got home I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t put it on.

I wasn’t sure but it might have been the nagging doubt that I wouldn’t be mum’s sweet little cherub for much longer that also spurred me into wearing the laid out protection. I desperately didn’t want things to change, and if things did, then perhaps that would be the start of everything changing and I’d be the one responsible for what was to come. I didn’t want that – look what happened last time I’d become careless.   

As it was, the only time mum insisted was if we were going on a long journey or ‘special’ event, when she coerced me into wearing ‘robust protection’. She seemed overly worried about any public leakage on my part, which would undoubtedly lead to my complete embarrassment. So she was making sure I wasn’t humiliated and always there to fit me expertly into whatever had been decided I needed. Sometimes she’d have a new pair of plastic or rubber pants she was trying out for the first time... or new fabric (and occasional disposable) when she’d ask for my opinion. It was difficult not being positive because I thought that if she’d gone to so much trouble, she must think it was for my benefit and if I was dismissive, perhaps she’d begin to care less... and I didn’t want that.

It was strange because I can only ever remember rebelling against this the once. I was wearing my night time protection and feeling hot and irritable so thought if I removed it I’d feel a lot better; besides mum had never forbidden me to take it off. However, once I’d squirmed out of it I did feel less hot but an overpowering sensation of fear and guilt replaced that particular sense (Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy) so quickly wriggled back into it and surprisingly dropped off to sleep straight away. In the morning I was soaked so glad I hadn’t spent the night exposed.

Eventually, I simply went along with what mum decided. If it wasn’t being kitted out for sleeping I associated being put into a nappy as part of the process to getting a treat of some kind... and I always wanted the treat.


Being dressed in a nappy wasn’t an issue. Perhaps unknowingly my cooperation, together with my shame about a ‘deformed’ thingy, had been bought with all these outings and wonderful extravagances. I had no idea why mum suddenly started with them, perhaps because she felt guilty for me losing some of my manhood. Whatever the reason, it was nice to be with her at such times because we always had a great time together and were getting on better than ever.

These experiences with her were always brilliant and I felt really privileged that I had the type of parent who lavished so much love and attention on their kid. However, I didn’t know if I was wearing nappies now for her benefit or my own. What I did remember was that puddles of pee and my lack of cleaning up after myself, which for some reason never even occurred to me (I don’t know why?), was thankfully a thing of the past.

Mum hadn’t made me wear them all the time, just suggestions for specific occasions where it seemed she was protecting me from any awkwardness I might cause from an involuntary spurt of pee. Then of course I wanted to wear them because I felt safe and my injured thingy was hidden deep within the many folds of soft fabric. Cupped as it was behind such protection, and held in place by a defensive guard of shiny plastic, was the only time I sensed I had any control.


Part 3

There was that window of opportunity after I woke up, but before I shrugged off my damp overnight nappy, when I occasionally wondered what I’d become.

Mum didn’t baby me, she didn’t treat me as anything other than who I was and the age I was. So, I didn’t feel like I was being made to do or be anything other than me. I’d tug off the sopping thing, dump it in the bathroom bin, do my business, have a shower, avoid looking at my strange naked member and get ready for school. I can’t say I ever wanted to wear thick protection to class, the need to keep that aspect of my person hush-hush was overpowering, but mainly, they’d know if I wore a nappy. So, I’d unenthusiastically pull on a clean pair of padded underpants before dragging over my loose-fitting grey school shorts in order to keep that secret.

Of course once home I didn’t need to. I mean the amount of times since the circumcision I’d arrive back and mum would insist on inspecting the wound to make sure I was healing correctly. She was always positive and encouraging saying things like “It’s healing nicely” or “let’s keep up what you’re doing as its helping”. Then, subtly suggest that the nice, fresh padding she’d laid out would benefit the continued restorative process, whilst indicating those recuperating powers would be wasted the longer I wasn’t wrapped in the thing.

She’d suggest things in an easy going, jocular voice like; “Oh you’re correct, I think you’ll feel more comfortable once you’re in them”, or, “I think your thingy is getting a bit fierce, better put on some healing lotion and nappy to be on the safe side”. She was always upbeat and smiling; there was no down side to it and none of it was too much trouble.

I didn’t protest: Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy would wheedle into my head and once that had taken hold I really had no alternative but to comply.

If I was a bit slow she might suggest a new balm or cream that she’d encourage me to try and in so doing immediately after wrap me up in layers of fabric “ make sure it works correctly.”

Apart from at night, when she insisted I was suitably enveloped, mum never required I wore a nappy at any other time. Although, there was always one on the dresser... ready... should I feel the need?  She would intimate and flatter and I’d end up thinking it was me who was the reluctant problem and should just wear what was on offer, but she never forced me into a fresh clean nappy.  

She seemed to regard my nappy-wearing as something medicinal and therapeutic, certainly something that would help my pruned penis in its continued but slow recuperation. The problem was, mum made it all sound that it was desirable and, more importantly, what I required.  So, before I knew it, the fleecy material was safely enclosing my crotch and I’d be set for the rest of the day wearing padded protection.

When I was in ‘full protection’ mode, my jeans and even my jogging bottoms hardly fit over it... if I could be bothered wearing them, so most often I didn’t bother. Mum didn’t seem to be troubled by her growing son wondering around the house in such a state – she didn’t encourage it (I don’t think) but certainly didn’t object either.

She often said that since the circumcision it was best to cover my penis in soft fabric to keep it healthy. So, wearing a nappy made sure that I was focused on keeping the area pristine and clean. It never occurred to me that the constant dousing in pee might have had something to do with my willie staying a bit red and raw. However, as I peed myself at night I had no way around such a problem. She’d shrewdly made me think that any young guy who’d had a similar operation also wore such comfy fabric to help stop irritation and continue to aid recovery... even long after I’d seemingly recovered.

Actually, I had very little to do with that side of things because mum was the one who kept an eye on it all. Because most mornings I was still waking up waterlogged the protection I wore was as mum had said; “Something that is required”.

It was.

Even when I was much better, she dressed, anointed, powdered and inspected the area almost daily so all I had to do was let her know if I itched or felt uncomfortable. So, as well as nappies, she even powdered my padded underpants for school. All in the name of keeping me safe and, as they never felt too unpleasant under my trousers, I didn’t complain, so she never asked if I was okay with it all... it had become normal practice.


However, after the first year or so the treats got fewer but my nappy wearing was maintained every night and any other ‘special’ occasion. ‘Special’ now seemed to mean anytime I wasn’t at school, where, as I mentioned, I wore underpants; white cotton, well-powdered and padded underpants to be precise. However, as soon as I got home after class I’d find night time protection always laid out on my bed. Also possibly a new pair of plastic pants, as well as canisters of powder and lotion mum thought was prudent to use. She insisted it was there to make sure everything was protected and kept in the healthiest possible state. So a nappy change and lashings of lotion were for health reasons and not only because of my nocturnal flood. I still simply assumed that everyone my age who’d been circumcised was facing the same course of treatment and a fresh, dry nappy wasn’t a problem it was a help.

As I got older I suddenly realised that mum had me circumcised because of the dribbles and yet now, I wore a nappy, it wouldn’t have mattered if I dribbled as the material would take care of it. I was also absolutely sure that something happened, or had gone wrong, when I had the cut because I didn’t wet the bed at all before then. Also, I was convinced the scar tissue was something major despite mum saying it was absolutely nothing to worry about. I did worry... constantly. It didn’t help that my wetting was getting worse.

Mum would have none of this conspiracy theory, insisting that my bed-wetting was more likely down to hormones as I was getting older and my entire body was going through many changes.

“Loads of boys your age, as they go through puberty and adolescence, sometimes wet the bed... so it’s no big deal. We’re just ahead of the game and have planned for such developments. You sweetheart are a leader. You’re organised, at ease with the situation and more importantly a fantastic example for anyone your age. You should be proud of yourself... because I am.”

Of course when mum said anything like that I just was so full of pride my self-satisfaction would hit danger levels and I’d smugly feel an air of superiority around my well protected groin. My ego would inflate to the size of the bulk under my slippery smooth pants and I’d be putty in mum’s very caring hands and do whatever she recommended.

From the very beginning she’d made nappy wearing no big deal and I came to associate the soft fabric as something soothing and healing so therefore desirable for my wellbeing - Happy=Nappy.


Something happened when I was twelve that had little to do with circumcision but had a huge impact on my attitude to wearing protection - my cousin Bradley came to live with us. Aunty Jane, mum’s other sister, lived over two hundred miles away from us so we very rarely saw her. I’d not seen Bradley since he was three and now he was a nine year old; it shows just how much we didn’t keep in touch.

However, Aunt Jane was going through a very messy divorce, which according to mum was about time (she’d never liked or got on with Uncle Thomas... she thought he was a bully). However, Uncle Thomas was making the divorce an unpleasant procedure and even though he no longer lived with my aunt and their son, was demanding access to him, which neither wanted, and making threats. Aunt Jane was scared of what might happen and begged mum to take Bradley in for the foreseeable future and the final divorce settlement.

Mum asked me if I’d mind. I wasn’t keen to begin with, worrying that a nine year old might become her sweet little cherub. However, she told me all the facts and painted a picture of poor little Bradley suffering and needing a refuge from all the bickering and intimidation. Put that way I could hardly say no even though it had been just mum and me for all these years. So mum agreed to take him in temporarily having thanked me for not only agreeing to his stay but for insisting he should come.

Aunty Jane delivered Bradley on a flying visit where she unloaded her son (she did look drained and very unhappy) together with a small suitcase with his belongings. She couldn’t thank mum and me enough for doing what we were doing but begged us not to let her husband have access to Bradley should he come looking. The entire thing sounded very scary and fraught with menace.


Poor little Bradley looked as worn and scared as his mother with the very mention of his father making him fearful and tearful; the poor nine year old looked and acted like a first grader anxious about his first day at school. I think he barely remembered either me or mum and was perhaps wondering why he was being separated from his own mother. She tried to remain positive, whilst both mum and I tried to make him feel welcome but as soon as she departed, he seemed inconsolable as the stream of tears dripped from his flushed cheeks.

Even mum’s hugs and reassurances, which I’d always found incredibly comforting, had no effect and he cried and cried for the rest of the day. At first I was sceptical about this visitor. Even though it had been quite some time since mum had mentioned about being her sweet little cherub, I was still worried my position might be usurped. However, I felt so sorry for the poor little guy. I’m not sure had this happened before my circumcision if I’d be more guarded, but now I wanted mum to hug him as much as he needed to get over whatever trauma he’d suffered.

As we only have two bedrooms in our house Bradley would be sharing my room and, as I now possessed a double bed, he would be sharing that with me. I would have to explain why I, a boy older then him, wore protection to bed, which I was sure would only lead to further confusion and possible humiliation for me, though mum thought not.

As it was, Bradley was so worn out with the journey and no doubt the weeks and weeks of turmoil at home he was so tired mum immediately put him to bed. In his suitcase were all his clothes so as he took a quick bath mum got his pyjamas ready and found a spare drawer for the rest of his few possessions. Whilst I was still downstairs watching TV mum checked our visitor was comfortable, helping him into his clean cotton pjs, and still trying to console the scared little chap. She stayed with him in my room until she was sure he’d fallen asleep. That would mean I wouldn’t have to explain anything about my own sleeping arrangements until the morning.

Mum clarified why he was in such a vulnerable situation and asked me to be aware that it was all strange and daunting for a sensitive young boy such as him. She asked me to be gentle and reassuring in the way I spoke to him and let him come around to his new circumstances in his own time. I understood all that and, at mum’s submission, might be fun having a ‘brother’, no matter how damaged he was, even for just a short time.

Later, mum got me ready for bed in the bathroom so as not to disturb Bradley. I did wonder what he’d think when he eventually saw I had to wear a nappy and thick plastic pants to bed, but for the moment all I had to do was know that I had a very frightened little boy lying next to me and I had to look after for him.


I’d never had school friends for a sleepover so this was a new experience for me, sharing a bed with another person. Of course I‘d slept in mum’s bed on many occasions but this seemed different and was unsure what to do. I was pleased he was asleep when I clambered in beside him and before I fell asleep I whispered a “Goodnight”, which I hoped he’d hear in whatever dreamland he was visiting.

However, I lay awake thinking. My thick silky protection rustled softly as I tried to get myself comfortable without waking my tired guest. At one point he let out a little scream and sob which he quickly silenced by sucking on his thumb. I really wanted to cuddle him so he’d know there was someone there for comfort but wasn’t sure if that was something I was allowed to do.

I didn’t have the best of nights but did wake up to find Bradley sleepily hugging me. His arm was draped across my plastic pants and he was squeezed up tight into the small of my back. I don’t know how he got into this position without me knowing but his little body seemed to be holding on for all he was worth. I could feel the warmth of both him and my drenched nappy and wondered if it was best just to lie there until he woke up.

He seemed in no hurry to wake up and wriggled constantly up against my soft padding, which again I wasn’t sure was something that was allowed. However, it wasn’t doing me any harm and he obviously needed as much sleep as possible so I eventually stretched out, put my arm around him and pulled him in until he was resting in the crook of my armpit.

Mum eventually came in and smiled at the both of us lying there; he cuddled up against me, whilst I was wondering what the rest of his stay was going to be like. Mum gently roused him from his dreams and he yawned himself awake but nervously looked around his new environment. He still wasn’t quite sure where he was so pulled away as if he was seeing me for the first time.

“Sweetheart, you need to get ready for school, meanwhile Bradley, why not join me for breakfast?”

Our guest seemed a little nervous about getting up but, as I drew back the covers he noticed my billowing protection and burst out laughing.


It was a weird sound but it was nice to see him smile for the first time since he’d arrived.

“Do you mind?” I said in mock seriousness. “A chap needs his protection when he’s sleeping with others.”

His laughter continued as he reached out to examine the bulging plastic pants that were now in his eye-line.

Before he could ask I volunteered the information.

“I have a serious bed-wetting problem... I don’t know why... but... ermmm... the easiest way to stop me from waking up to a wet bed is a nappy. That way I only wake up to that, whilst the plastic pants keep everything else dry.”

“But you look like a big baby.” He scoffed.

“Ahh,” I countered, “but a dry big baby.” I emphasised quite wrongly, I was wringing wet.

He smiled again but shook his head in disbelief.

“I don’t know why you sound superior... you spent the night time snuggled up to it,” I stroked the plastic he’d been mocking, “and with your thumb in your mouth.”

He looked shocked.

“Did not.”

“Did...” There was no point in arguing so I just shrugged my shoulders and ambled off to the bathroom.


Part 4

Not having school to worry about, Bradley sauntered down to the kitchen for breakfast. 

“What do you like for breakfast sweetie? We have cereal, toast... and I think we still have a couple of hot-cross buns if you fancy?”

He opted for cereal.

He sat quietly munching on his food but mum tried to put him at ease.

“I know this is a difficult time for you Bradley, but I want you to know that we’re very pleased to have you as our guest... and I’m sure as soon as mummy has things sorted out she’ll come and get you.”

His eyes looked like they’d fill up again and mum wondered if she was making things worse.

I joined them at the table and as I walked past ruffled his hair and said I bet he was glad that at least he didn’t have school to worry about.

He wiggled his head from side to side; I think he was pleased about that.

I also think he checked out my school shorts to see if I was wearing protection under them but of course... not for school. Mum likes me to be smart so it’s always a clean shirt, nicely tied tie, brushed and shiny shoes, pulled up socks and spotless school blazer. Although the shorts were quite loose-fitting, the entire uniform made me look well-turned-out. Mum's always proud of the way I dressed for school and since returning to wearing shorts had been even more complimentary than before, which I quite liked.

Meanwhile, what Bradley hadn’t noticed, until mum pointed out, was that his pyjama bottoms had a rather large wet stain on them. He instantly stopped munching on his cereal, looked down and his eyes and face scrunched into a painful expression. He was most embarrassed and ran from the kitchen back up to our bedroom.

I have to admit that I didn’t notice the bed being wet, so perhaps he’d had a little accident wondering where he was when he woke up... maybe he was disorientated?


Mum followed trying to reassure him that he need not worry but she found him crying heavily into the pillows on the bed.

“I, I, I don’t want to have to wear a, a, a nappy.” He sniffled, upset at what had taken place.

“No one said you’d have to sweetie.”

“But, but you make T,T,Terry wear one.”

“Oh sweetie, Terry wears a nappy because he has a problem... yours... I’m sure is just a little accident... no one is going to make you wear...” She gently cuddled him.

As these comforting words were said there was a realisation she couldn’t make such a promise. What if this wasn’t just a one off accident, what if the boy was traumatised by family events and this was the reaction. No, she had to be reassuring but keep her options open. He was a frightened little boy but if things got worse, he may just need the support and security of tight fitting nappies and plastic pants.

Whilst he was in the bathroom she checked the bed and there was a very slight bit of dampness to his side. She changed the sheet and was grateful that there’d been a waterproof mattress cover on for some time. The mattress protector I’d lived with since I got the double bed.

No more was said and Bradley dressed in his usual clothes. He spent the rest of the day getting to know the house and garden, which in truth wasn’t that impressive. However, mum raided my old cupboard and found some toys to occupy him. According to mum he spent equal amounts of time looking engrossed in a game, or looking miserable wondering what was going to happen to him and his mum. Apparently, when mum’s back was turned, he ate an entire box of chocolates in a matter of minutes.

Mum said nothing, the boy had been through enough without being rebuked for being a bit greedy.


The following morning I woke up to find a pretty distressed looking Bradley holding his tummy and moaning.

“What’s wrong?”

“My tummy hurts.”

I knew this couldn’t be him making excuses because, for the moment at least, he wasn’t going to school and mum had said she’d take him to the park.

“Okay, well, when my tummy hurts mum has me drink some Andrews.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like a sparkling, effervescent drink that always seems to help clear... Look, I’ll get you some and see if it works.”

I hopped out of bed. My silky plastic pants holding up my soggy nappy quite well I thought as I played nurse to my ailing guest.

He watched as I spooned in the white crystals into a cold glass of water and told him it worked better if he drank it whilst it still fizzed.

He took a nervous sip and smiled as the bubbles tickled the end of his nose. Pretty soon he’d downed the whole lot so told him to give it a few minutes before he moved. I heard mum shouting from downstairs that breakfast was on the table so rushed off to get ready for school and left him to rest.

Later the smiling face of Bradley joined us and I noticed that small damp patch again on the front of his PJs. I wondered if mum would say anything and I could see she’d clocked it but just poured him some juice and moved back to the fridge.

Meanwhile, whilst she was attending to something else he whispered how good ‘that stuff’ was.

“I just did a massive fart,” he smiled secretively at me whilst making sure mum hadn’t heard him use such a word and getting into trouble. “No tummy-ache... I feel a lot better now.”

We didn’t know until much later that as his stomach was still aching he’d returned to the bathroom cabinet and taken even more Andrews (quite a lot more) and was convinced that had made him do his ‘massive fart’ which made him feel better. He had no idea of the consequences.

Now Bradley wasn’t in pain I didn’t think to mention giving him any medicine so went off to school innocent of any turmoil to come.

After breakfast mum told him to get a wash and then ready for their planned day out at the park. She’d decided to show him around so he could see what our small town had to offer ending up at the food court in the Mall where he could choose what he wanted for lunch. It was going to be a treat and so she could get to know him a lot better when hopefully he was more relaxed about being away from his mother.

That morning his mum had spoken to him and told him that she’d be back to collect him before too long, but, in other conversations she had with mum said things were bad though hoped to sort things out soon. Mum reassured her that he was welcome to stay as long as she needed him to but would have to enrol him in school if it was going to be more than a couple of weeks.

Aunt Jane hoped it wouldn’t be that long but didn’t really know - as long as Bradley was out of the line of fire and safe she was happy... ish.


As he was going to the park Bradley got dressed in his football strip of white shorts and red shirt and hoped there’d be other kids there with whom he could play football. The journey is part urban and part suburban and is about a twenty minute drive from our place.

After about ten minutes mum said she could see he was a bit agitated and wondered what the problem might be when he suddenly announce that she should stop the car. She told him that we’d be at the park in just a few minutes and besides, at that moment, there was nowhere for her to pull over. She asked if he needed the loo, he nodded. She asked if it was urgent, he looked pained and nodded again. She looked for a spot to pull over and saw up ahead a layby and told Bradley to hold on he could have a wee there.

Alas, no sooner had she pulled in than he opened the door and made it about three steps before his full and churning bowel let loose.  The thin underpants and polyester shorts soaked nothing up as the explosive contents of his bottom let rip. The poor boy didn’t even make it to the sanctuary of the few trees that might have given him a little bit of privacy. There were a few beeps from passing vehicles that’d witnessed Bradley’s incident. His failure to get his shorts down in time and the wetness of his accident saw much of the watery mess trickle down his legs soaking everything from top to bottom and reduced him to a pitiful, weeping boy at the side of the road.

Mum said she ushered him behind the trees as soon as she could but the poor boy was embarrassed and scared of what had just happened and begged mum not to punish him. She went all out to comfort him and eventually, after quite a few minutes of reassurance told him to wait where he was and she’d see about getting him in a slightly better condition before they returned home. He didn’t want to change but mum said he couldn’t travel in her car in such a state. Everything he was wearing was a complete smelly mess so he’d need changing. As it was, the only stuff she had was my emergency nappy pack she always carried in the boot of the car and it was with this she returned to Bradley hidden for a little privacy behind a couple of low bushes.


Without telling him what was in the bag she slowly and lovingly stripped him naked and put his messy clothes in a large black plastic bag. Then she swabbed him using a mixture of wet wipes, a damp cloth (she had to dampen it from the water bottle she had with her) and a spare towel that was also in the bag. Once he was as clean as she could get him came the moment when she knew he would react.

She fluffed out a disposable and started to put it on him. He reacted badly crying, screaming and shouting “NO” but mum pointed out there was no choice as she had nothing else. After many minutes of tears and guarantees she finally got him into it with the promise that they would go straight home... the park and a game of football completely forgotten.

The disposable was quite large on him but did the job and whilst she had him slightly calmer slipped up a pair of my reserve plastic pants to hold everything in place. He was not happy at all and refused to budge. But mum maintained that he looked fine and no one would be able to tell if he didn’t make a fuss. By now the traffic had lessened but he felt apprehensive about walking the few feet to the car desperately hoping that as fewer people as possible spotted his slinky protection.

Mum kept telling him she was sorry but it was all she had to clothe him but he sat annoyed and unhappy as she drove to the next roundabout and started the return journey. The subdued boy wriggled trying to get comfortable. Mum wasn’t sure if this was because he was actually uncomfortable or if he was making a point. However, she admitted to herself that he looked a lot like me when I only wore a disposable covered by vinyl pants... and was quite used to that scenario.

Unfortunately, just before they drove down our road, Bradley was once again hit with the need to flush out whatever was left and at the same time his bladder joined in. A surprised and distressing moan escaped his trembling lips followed by tears and sobbed apologies. He arrived back with an incredibly messy disposable sagging heavily behind huge plastic pants.

It was his turn to feel bad. Twice he’d filled his pants in the most undignified of ways and was thankful that what he was wearing actually helped from turning the car into a roadside convenience. He was completely and utterly distraught and apprehensive about what was to come as a result of such a catastrophe.


Mum had no idea at all about Bradley complaining of a poorly stomach, nor did she know he’d taken loads of Andrews to get rid of it. All she knew was that Bradley had filled his pants twice so she was taking no chances. Luckily, the protection had done its job and had contained the secondary mess quite well. Although she made a note about that amount of protection being barely adequate so, a bit more padding would make it better and lessen any anxiety, even if it was her anxiety about the house being turned into a public toilet.

She cleaned him up as best she could but thought a complete shower, which she supervised, was a better idea. There was no chance of Bradley being embarrassed by mum seeing him naked; she’d already seen him at his worst. He meekly did as mum told him to as she sponged him down making sure he was completely clean.

So, once out of the shower, and despite his timid protestations, he was wrapped in a similar fabric nappy as I wore for bed and had the same white plastic pants pulled over to keep it in place. She wanted no arguments, insisting this was only a temporary measure, until she’d sorted out what the problem was.


When I got home there was one very grumpy boy sat watching television and I noticed he was wearing exactly the same as I did for bed. I wondered if he’d wet after I’d gone and mum was punishing him but I tried not to make a big deal about it.

“Thank Heaven’s I’m not on my own... the Corp needs more honest and true young men.”

He didn’t appear very impressed and just huffily shrugged and ignored me.

Seeing another boy in similar protection to what I wore was quite an eye-opener. I didn’t realise how much I needed to know others wore the same as me... and here was my new little ‘brother’ in the same outfit and not looking much different to the way I was often dressed.

I called on mum in the kitchen and she brought me up to speed. She seemed worried he would find being put into protection, even if it was for his own good, too much of a trauma... and he’d suffered enough of that already. I explained about his tummy ache and the glass of Andrews. She was sure that couldn’t have given him such a reaction but agreed it might have contributed.

(I only found out much later when he told me that, as his tummy still hurt and how much he’d liked  the Andrews, so took some more. He hadn’t acquainted the two things as having any significance but anyway, by then he was wearing a nappy and plastic pants at night... like me. So I wasn’t going to say anything.)    

Meanwhile, I had an idea and dashed up to our room, removed my school uniform and returned wearing exactly the same as Bradley.

“Okay partner... now we can tackle the world’s naughty people together... fighting evil and heroically save those desperately sad folk who don’t have plastic armour to wear.”

He looked up bemused but no longer ignoring me.

“At last... you’ve joined the ranks of the plastic pants brigade... better known as... da da da darrrrr – The Armoured Pant Corps.” I said encouragingly.

I plonked myself down beside him and rubbed our plastic pants together.

“We are now bonded for life.”

There was a little indecision in his eyes so I stepped it up a notch.

“Do you... Bradley the Great... promise to uphold the laws of the Armoured Pant Corps; fight evil and protect the world from naughtiness?”

I’d wished I’d used a better term than naughtiness but he seemed to suddenly get the game.

“To wear your special, impregnable plastic protection for the good of others?” I continued.

“Erm... yes... I promise.” He nodded with more enthusiasm than I could have expected.

“Then let it be known throughout the land that Bradley the Great and Terry the Terrified... erm... Terrifying.” He laughed at this silly mistake. “Have joined forces to rid the world of wickedness and the universe can rest assured it is now under our protection.”

I indicated our respective shiny plastic pants on the word ‘protection’.

I saw mum watching from the doorway but Bradley couldn’t see her. She looked so happy that I’d managed to get the morose little boy of earlier, involved in a project... as silly as it was.

“OK, swear on your plastic pants that you do so... erm... swear.”

We both put our hand on our plastic mound and saluted (he followed my salute to him) “I so swear,” we chorused.


I’d watched how mum gently but very persuasively had gotten him to wear the same as me. She made it sound like it was his idea... and such a brilliant idea... that he wanted to be safe and dress like me. After all; “Protectors of the Universe needed protection of their own... didn’t they?”

She showered praise on him being a thoughtful and grown-up boy for doing such a thing, which made him very pleased with himself. Mum told me to keep reinforcing what a good, considerate boy he was as we cuddled together before dropping off. Oddly enough, from that moment on he wore protection whenever I did and mum seemed more than happy to change his wet nappy if need be. She just changed him like she did me, with no comment and as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do for a couple of lively lads.

I told him that it was as we dreamt we could journey to anywhere and everywhere to do our Super Hero work. He seemed happy with that explanation though where I got it from I don’t know. In the morning I’d wake up more often than not soaked, whilst he would wake up damp. He rarely wet the way I did but there were trickles so seemed more than content to drop off wearing such defence.

When I say ‘rarely wet like me’ I don’t mean he never did. On two occasions he woke up completely and utterly drenched, though he didn’t know why. Then on a couple of other occasions fairly early on, he messed himself after two particularly scary nightmares. I was jarred awake by a sudden kick and a frightened muffled scream. I could hear my bed mate making muted scared noises and tossing around like a boy possessed. He woke up and was a crying ball of confusion not knowing what to do and obviously very, very worried.

By the time I realised what was going on and tried to comfort him he’d filled his night time protection and appeared even more scared. As always, mum took it in her stride and praised him for wearing a nappy, continually going on about how brilliant it was that he wore protection. She even thanked him for saving her from having to do a ton of laundry. The plastic pants had once again come into their own, mum swore by them.

It may sound strange but, as easily as Bradley had accepted the plastic and fabric safeguard at night, so it didn’t seem so bad for me and I accepted my need for it more willingly than perhaps I had been. Not that I’d been creating a fuss or anything it was just something I had to wear but now it was something I could share, it seemed fun? I did feel like we were a ‘special’ little team of nappy wearers and as such were distinctive, and I’m embarrassed to say, extraordinary.

Mum was always positive about us wearing nappies though, if we had anyone visiting, school friends or neighbours, we’d wear underpants under our shorts. For me it was always a relief come bed time when it was back into our nightly protection.

‘Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy’ couldn’t have been truer as I enjoyed the fact that both of us now wore them and we both seemed content with the way things were. I’m not sure that Bradley had the refrain zinging around his brain but his total acceptance for his night attire made everything so much better. Our bed time chats and our mutual vinyl rustling were definitely the highlights of my day.

The fact that I was embarrassed about my scarred, and as I saw it, deformed willie became less of an issue. I was more at ease with having Bradley around and us spending so much together. Privacy was one thing that I’d been used to but of course sharing a room this became impossible and then completely unimportant. He saw me being changed and I watched as he was also fitted into his safeguard. There was no embarrassment just a joint feeling of camaraderie.


Our joint night time security was a major bond between us and even if it was just sitting watching TV together, it didn’t seem strange. He opened up and we chatted about everything from the few mates he had at home, to his parent’s constant fighting and his hopes of becoming an astronaut. (I’m sure the thought of getting away from his squabbling parents having something to do with that ambition). I think he was glad to have me as a distraction to his own worries and the frequent calls from his mother, although always positive, never gave him a date when they’d be together again. He could have slipped into despair but I like to think that, perhaps without knowing it, we helped each other with our individual problems.

In truth, things were not going well with the divorce and it was anticipated he’d be with us for some time so mum enrolled him at my school. She’d raided the attic and I was surprised by how much of my old clothing she’d kept; I thought it had long gone to a charity shop. She sorted through and found plenty of stuff still functional and made it available to Bradley.

He took great delight in wearing a pair of my rather colourful childish pyjamas I’d had when I was seven. He joked saying that he thought I must have looked very cute in them... and then he roared with laughter as he said now it was his turn. Wearing a thick nappy under them I had to agree he did look very cute indeed.  

My old school uniform fitted him and thankfully was still smart and functional... as were quite a lot of my old clothes. He even ended up wearing some of my underwear from when I was his age... everything looked pretty good on him.

School was strained, not having anyone he knew apart from me, whilst his reticence to mix and make friends made things difficult. He always seemed glad to see me at the end of the school day when we’d meet up to walk home together. I urged him to make friends but his response was it didn’t matter; he wasn’t going to be here that long.

I found it rewarding to see him wearing my old clothes as we walked the mile or so to and from our classes each day. As I say it was like having a brother and more than one person who didn’t know the circumstances assumed that was exactly what we were.

He appeared to like having a big brother and I certainly liked having a little brother.

At night, laid in bed, if he wasn’t asleep (he went to bed slightly earlier than I did) we’d chat and giggle and he’d tell me all his plans. His father occasionally got mentioned (and not in a good way) but hoped he and his mum could come and live with or near us. Other times we’d make up stories about saving the universe wearing our special plastic armour, taking down bad guys and ‘smelly criminals’ (that was one of his phrases). His imagination was better than mine, the stories and adventures he came up with were quite fantastic, night times were fun.


He was with us almost six months when his mother nervously arrived to pick him up. Uncle Thomas was in prison for threatening behaviour and contempt of court. So, aunty and my cousin suddenly moved to a completely different town where he couldn’t track them down. Well, that’s what mum told me but I suspect there was a lot more going on than either she or aunty let on.

I’m not sure if mum had mentioned to auntie about Bradley’s need for a nappy at night, or that he’d been wearing one all the time he’d been with us. However, he did leave with more clothes than he came with as mum loaded him up with all my still serviceable old stuff.

I was sad to see Bradley go. We’d become really good friends and I liked having a younger brother to look after. Now I’m not saying we never fell out or hadn’t had arguments but, in general, perhaps because we had to share a bed at night, I thought we got on pretty well.

There had been times when he said he didn’t want to wear a nappy to bed and mum would agree with him that he didn’t need to but only if he woke up in a dry nappy. He rarely did. She would tell him how clever he was for anticipating the possibility he might wet and praised a dry bed and pjs.


My bed was very empty without my slippery-panted bed mate and Armoured Pant Corps wingman.

After our guest and his mother departed we didn’t hear from them for a few weeks. I was sad to lose my little friend and it was through his juvenile teasing that I came to accept wearing nappies simply because there was never any spite in his comments. Of course I gave as good as I got but there was something, a link perhaps, between us both that meant that everything was okay.

I’m sure my trauma was nothing compared to his but Bradley relaxed with us and I think even mum’s insistence on him, like me, wearing protection to bed was a display of thoughtfulness and love. At the very least it stopped any worries he might have had about wetting his pyjamas and the daily embarrassment that would have caused.

Well that’s how I saw it and hope my little brother did too.

##tbc##owever, I didn’t fall

Part 5

It’s four years since the operation and I adopted nappies as a secure way to help in my willie’s recovery but I have to admit that I still wet at night. I’ve no idea (nor does any doctor I’ve seen) why I should be wetting at my age but to be perfectly truthful, I’m incredibly grateful it’s my padding that takes on that responsibility.

We’ve tried over the years to see if I can manage without that magic ‘sponge’ between my legs, although I don’t know why but sleep and a wet nappy seem to go hand in hand. It appears I can’t stop. I still sleep fully ‘wrapped and sealed’ (as mum once joked) and I’m not sure I would sleep at all if it wasn’t so.

Over the years I’ve had dreams that involved the painful removal of that flappy bit of skin and wondered if mum was onto something all that time ago. She’d equated that disastrous operation with each nightly flood. My not very prettily cut penis is a constant reminder of that event (even if mum and doctor insists that there’s nothing wrong with it now) and it wouldn’t be wrong to say a shiver of trepidation, whether night or day, has had the occasional effect of an unexpected spurt of pee. My night time wetting isn’t done on purpose as I can never remember ever wanting, or needing, to go to the toilet so, perhaps I’ve clung onto wearing nappies with good reason?

It may seem strange that after all this time I haven’t lost the need for protection. In fact, if anything, I’ve come to rely on it more and more. I can’t pretend that I haven’t tried to stop wearing it but all attempts have ended in failure. At these times, if mum sees I’m looking frustrated, angry or even slightly begrudging (and occasionally I do) she beams her best smile, whispers in my ear that there is nothing to worry about. So, whilst it’s stopping any embarrassment on my part... I should be happy in my nappy.

Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy

Once that refrain fills my brain every thought tells me that wearing a nappy is good for me and will make me happy. Oddly enough, I do usually feel better knowing that I have mum’s support and can’t think why I resented its presence even for a moment.


Two months after Bradley left us mum received a cheque for quite a hefty sum of money. I assumed it was from auntie to pay for all the care and attention mum had spent on our little guest. Anyway, she said it was a great deal more than she’d anticipate. I hadn’t realised that there was a financial side to the deal... still it was most welcome and mum thought a special treat was justified.

As I’ve mentioned before I love treats but this was extra-special because she said we deserve a holiday to the Mediterranean sun. This was an exhilarating possibility and I could hardly contain my visible excitement at the prospect. I loved every aspect of it; the planning, the booking of flights and hotel, the packing and the journey itself. Though most of all I loved the sun once we got there.

Now she makes sure that we go abroad several times a year and I have to say I love visiting all those lovely destinations. However, when we’re flying off to some sunnier climate she insists that I’m well-padded for the journey. She’s not that keen on me sharing the inflight toilet with hundreds of other people so tells me to use my nappy if I’m desperate to go. I try to stay dry but don’t always succeed.

Whilst abroad, when we go out anywhere, she also recommends secure padding because, although she is enthusiastic about seeing all the wonderful places of interest, she isn’t keen on the state of sanitation in some of these places.

I have to agree.

I don’t mind as I’m pretty obsessed about not letting my disfigured willie be exposed to anything I worry might make it ‘flare up’. The thick padding always seems a good precaution, although she insists it is me that made this ‘nappy’ rule despite her saying.

“A wet disposable is better than contracting some infection as a result of poor toilet facilities”.

Not that they are all bad but some of the more public, and touristy ones are in a terrible state so:

“It’s better to be safe than sorry”.

Even now I’m fourteen years old, mum’s thinking of my health and welfare. In fact, she’s said on more than one occasion that my protection is there for good reason and whilst it’s doing me no harm I shouldn’t be afraid to wear or use it.


Not once has she ever complained about my wetting problem or thought that my wearing a nappy was in anyway a criticism of who I am. In fact, if anything, it is mum who encourages me to wear a nappy as often and whenever I want. She sees it as a sensible precaution and prevention from any unfortunate accidents... and as always I can’t disagree with her. Even more so when I realise too late that I needed to pee and my warm nappy has thankfully taken care of it all. I’d be mortified if anyone saw a wet patch as I wondered some historic site and I’d hate to embarrass mum if anyone spied what I’d done.

No, no, NO. I’d rather have a bulky nappy covered in thick waterproof plastic than a wet stain any day... I always feel a lot safer when I wear them. It’s like the insurance policy mum had to take out for our travels – you hope you won’t need it but you’re so glad you had it if you do.

These days the prospect of people mentioning my padded bottom or sleek genital area, or catching a glimpse of my vinyl pants, is no longer a worry to me. If folk say anything I can always inform them of my urinary problem or simply ignore them.  Not since the very early days of wearing has it been a problem and that’s down to the way mum treats me and such padding. She jokes that guys who prefer white CK briefs really want a nappy but don’t have the guts to wear one.

A nappy is just underwear, the underwear I wear.

Once when we were talking about it she’d playfully called it my ‘cushion of love’ and in that strangely inappropriate comment I’d never felt closer to my mother. She loved me and that was all that mattered and I wanted to maintain that love.

I know that sounds like I’m a bit of a mummy’s boy, and I suppose since the snip I have relied on her taking care of my wellbeing and welfare. I think being an only parent she’s doing a remarkable job and when we had Bradley with us, I could see just how caring mum was... and is. She made time for us both. She didn’t treat our visitor any differently than she did me and spent equal amounts of time encouraging us when needed and sympathising if we were feeling upset. Whatever she did we’d both come away feeling better because of her so, if I’m a mummy’s boy... it’s because I have a wonderful, caring mother.


I know that wearing a nappy can be thought of as being a bit juvenile but thick padding has saved my embarrassment on more occasions than I care to remember so for me they are a reliable friend. I don’t want you to think that mum forces me into wearing a nappy all the time, because I don’t. At school I don’t and if I don’t want to I don’t. However, over time I’ve come to both rely and appreciate what a nappy can offer that a pair of briefs or boxers can’t. So it’s my choice...

Like, for instance, if we go to the beach I don’t wear a nappy I wear my pale blue nylon Speedos. I love to swim in the sea (although mum’s not that enthusiastic) where, if I have to, I can wee in the ocean without consequence and later innocently lay out on a towel in the sun, which I also like.  This is what’s so wonderful about our holidays abroad... I enjoy the sun and if I had my way I’d like to live in Spain or one of the Greek islands permanently.

However, mum is always hovering with suntan cream and lotions which she liberally smears all over me.  She takes protection very seriously so there’s not a bit of skin that doesn’t get a thick coating... and I mean everywhere. She’s also very strict about how much time I’m allowed to lie out in the sun and is often calling me to put on some t-shirt over my reddening skin. I do like it when I go a little bit tanned because there is a nice white patch around my groin where I’ve worn my Speedos, which looks like the marker for where a nappy should be pinned. It was mum who pointed this out and we both giggled at the idea.

However, when we get back to the hotel I have to take a long shower. After being in the sea she insists on a really good cleaning, after which, copious amounts of antiseptic cream and anti-rash lotion (not unlike the suntan lotion) are slathered in to my untanned nappy area. Sometimes I do it myself but even then she always checks so, it’s just as easy to leave her to do it for me and then at least we know it’s on correctly.

As usual mum has a disposable (for holiday use) laid out ready for when we go out to dinner. She checks which colourful holiday outfit I want to wear and then matches the coloured plastic pants to it so I feel co-ordinated. I know this might sound stupid but I do feel more grown-up knowing the vinyl cover matches my clothes.

These days I don’t even think about it, a nappy seems to be what’s needed and mum still insists it’s better for a circumcised boy (no matter how long ago it was done) to feel the soft reassuring, comfortable material hugging and keeping his ‘bits and bobs’ safe.

I think ‘reassuring’ is the main point about wearing a nappy. Despite occasional spurts of pee at the most inopportune moments they take care of any difficulty and stop it becoming a crisis.

Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy


Once we’ve eaten we often walk through the resort occasionally stopping at some cute little bar where she might sit and have a coffee as we watch the other holiday makers enjoying themselves. It appears strange that most kids are not that interested in being with their families, simply intent on looking at their phones for entertainment. To my mind they are missing out on the wonderful night time vistas; the white-washed cobbled streets lit by the occasional lamp, or the subtly lit castle that dominates a particular skyline. It’s all just wonderful.

Mum likes to chat and if it isn’t with me she’ll start up a conversation with whoever’s sat at a nearby table. She encourages me to join in and often, in a matter of a few minutes, we’ll be deep in conversation with new friends as if we’ve known them all our lives.

A couple of times I’ve seen both kids and grown-ups looking at my protection (sometimes it can be seen if my shorts ride up and expose my plastic pants) and I can see a query coming. One or two kids have called me a baby but I just shrug and ignore them. The insult doesn’t worry me because I don’t feel, or am treated, like a baby. Mum has never treated me as a baby and tells anyone interested that I have a ‘urinary problem’ and protection is the best way to deal with it.

This excuse of having a ‘urinary problem’ was something I hadn’t expected but could tell mum was just using it so that I didn’t feel like I had to go deep into explaining being circumcised etc. So, for the last couple of years we’d been using that as the excuse for padding.  

Nappy wearing was something I now did almost all the time (I still wore padded underpants to school) and mum seemed okay with it. I’d managed to convince her that I didn’t mind such a dependable way to prevent the occasional mishap during the day, or the practical thick padding I needed at night where my flooding has not declined.

I think she was relieved that I didn’t demand that ‘butcher’ put it back and was glad that I’d come to terms with what she knew was a very botched job. I love my mother more and more each day, and I’m sure she didn’t do it to hurt me, it just did, both physically and mentally and so a wet nappy (better than a wet bed or pants) is the price I suppose we both have to pay.


Meanwhile, it’s weird when people notice and I become the centre of attention. I just echo what mum says so when they ask if it’s uncomfortable I happily admit that it’s fine. In fact, it’s all very pleasant to wear and not only stops any embarrassing damp patches but offers a great deal of comfort and security. I’ve seen some kids, and a few parents, appear stunned at my admission and look warily at one and other; although I never know if this is to do with me or something going on in their own family. I think they think that I must be being punished for some reason and that I’m being forced to wear them against my will.

Occasionally you’ll see one parent nodding and I wonder if their child might end up wearing a nappy at some time in the near future. I think I can count on one hand the number of times an adult has ever said anything negative in public to me or mum about my wearing such protection. Mum says I’m a good advert for a boy who wears a nappy – polite, interesting and happy.

When she says stuff like that I still have the refrain running through my mind; Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy.

That sing-song little melody has been with me since I started wearing padding and now that’s all I can think about... I am happy... and so is mum.


After the saunter, the chat and the coffee, we eventually get back to our room. Mum makes sure I’m particularly well-padded for bed and so far, to her credit and foresight, and despite nearly every morning waking up sodden, I’ve never once wet a hotel bed... for which I am very grateful. That would be terribly embarrassing.

In fact, it is with a great deal of pride that since I’ve worn a nappy with plastic covering, I’ve never wet any bed... no matter how much I’ve peed during the night.

The amount I pee I suspect is down to the gallons of bottled water I’m encouraged to drink. Mum says that my body works better when I’m well hydrated, because it gives me an ‘unpolluted internal system’. She says that with the heat and everything it’s simply the best way to stop getting sunstroke or becoming dehydrated.

This makes sense to me but anyway, I do as I’m told and take in liquids all the time. Unfortunately, this often means I’ve swamped my nappy when we’ve been out and about. A wet nappy isn’t much of a hindrance to me just getting on with stuff. Mum always carries disposables and nappy rash cream in her shoulder bag so if I feel the need, can change me as soon as she finds a suitable spot, although sometimes I do it myself.

Of course, I prefer mum doing it, she makes sure everything is wiped clean and all the fabric is neatly tucked into my plastic pants. I love these intimate moments because mum is always positive, smiling and encouraging. When she’s done there’s always that final loving tap to my heavily padded bottom as she smooths it all into position. She’ll give me that look, our own private knowing look, then whisper a few reassuring words that leave me feeling cosy and warm. As I say, I’m used to it but to me it confirms her continued love. Besides, mum seems to like looking after me and I’m blessed to have a mother who cares so much. I think I’m still her ‘sweet little cherub’, only a little bit bigger.       

For this current holiday mum has bought some new, super-fitting rubber nappy covers that feel fantastic to wear. They’re glossy but tough and in an array of bright colours that I think look incredible. Thankfully, the new, thicker, shiny light blue rubber pants she’s invested in keeps everything sealed and secured both day and night. She’d found them online before we left the UK as they reminded her of our trip. Even with the Mediterranean weather being so warm it’s nice to fall asleep on my bed wearing such chunky protection with their glistening cover. Mum says that when it catches the light they sort of shimmer and glow... she says that could be a description of me; silly I know, but nice to hear.

There is definitely something special about what I wear... and what I like. Mum says the soft silky rubber matches the wonderful Mediterranean character; warm, colourful, laid-back, whilst I look the most contented boy in the world. I suppose I am because I have nothing at all to worry about.

Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy

A mother’s thoughts

After the disastrous attempt at circumcision I realised I’d made a huge mistake and damaged my little boy. His slap-dash approach to going to the toilet was frankly annoying and the fact he didn’t seem to notice or care was driving me mad, I looked for a solution. I honestly thought I was doing him a favour by having that flappy bit of skin removed because of the positive arguments for doing so, together with the words of assurance from Peter; the man who actually did it, convinced me it was the right move. However, once the deed was done, and I saw the impact it had on Terry, I knew I’d have to make amends somehow.

It was quite drastic action to take just to prevent him leaving puddles around, especially when I read that quite a lot of boys had the same problem guiding their pee into the correct space. It would seem that a large number of uncircumcised boys have trouble with their foreskin, which sends the stream off in different directions. Apparently mine is not, or was not, the only toilet to have puddles all over the place. Alas, I only found out about that unedifying fact after he’d had the tortuous ‘snip’.

It took longer than normal (if normal is the correct term) for it to heal. In those early days its slightly misshapen angle and continued redness gave it a look of not actually having mended at all. It was unfortunate that Terry constantly worried about it even when it appeared to operate as it should in a growing boy. However, with the application of lotions, creams etc. he welcomed the constant attention believing it was doing some good.

Nevertheless, guilt sent my protective genes into overdrive. I knew what had happened was my fault but, as I also knew I couldn’t reattach it, I needed to find a way of making things better. To begin with he was in so much distress from the operation I thought he’d never speak to me again. However, something did happen, he started wetting the bed and needed me to make the misery go away.  

So that was my job; to relieve him of the discomfort he was in. I set about that mission with determination to make my little boy comfy and happy. Though at the time I had no idea the way I went about it would lead to an area I found strangely heart-warming.


What that way was... I’d read on one of the internet’s  ‘helpful’ info sites, where parents exchange views and offer solutions, that for an injured penis a soft nappy might be more comforting than normal everyday wear. It could have been I was clutching at straws for a solution and although it seemed the last thing my boy would appreciate, I thought I’d give it a go.

Oddly enough, in my sister Jen’s usual angry way she’d recommended this course of action earlier as a punishment but I’d not given it any thought. She was very bitter and angry about the whole idea of a boy spraying urine around like he was marking some kind of territory. I think if Terry had been hers he would have found himself with a blistered bottom and wearing protection on a daily basis.

Although that wasn’t the way I treated my son, now others were also offering it not as a punishment but as a possible temporary solution I thought it couldn’t harm. My boy was sore and I explained that a viable solution was a nice soft nappy. He looked at me like I’d suggested to remove his penis altogether but I managed to convince him to give it a try. I explained that if he wasn’t more comfortable he wouldn’t have to keep it... if he wasn’t happy.

So, as he’d started to wet the bed in his sleep the padding took care of both problems and quite efficiently if I say so myself, but I needed him to know just how much I cared.

I don’t like to go on about it (and I know I shouldn’t) but my ten year old son in a nappy was a delightful sight. He looked so much younger, dependant, uncertain and when he looked to me for guidance, even after what had happened, so very trusting. The fact that when a thick fabric nappy was applied, and he hadn’t reacted badly (and more importantly actually seemed grateful for the relief), I wondered what else I could do.


It was a hug. Yes, as simple as that... a hug.

When I held him and calmed his anxiety, when I patted his nicely padded bottom before bed, when I whispered that all would be okay and that he had nothing to worry about, he accepted the situation. What was even more remarkable, as he clung dependently to my neck, was the impression he didn’t blame me... he needed me to make things better. However, despite this, my guilt still persisted.

‘Distraction’ from his injury was also suggested by those advice givers on the net and who was I to think they were wrong after what I’d done to my son. ‘Keep his mind from dwelling on the damage and find him something else to focus on’. Treats seemed a good option... it also assuaged some of that overpowering blame I continued to feel as I watched my robust young son replaced by a timid pre-teen wearing a nappy.

I didn’t want him to think he didn’t have options so I made his underwear more absorbent by sewing in some extra padding. The idea was that while it was painful for him to pee they should act as a temporary barrier, which I hoped at school would at least give him time to get to the boy’s room.

However, I noticed a couple of things, psychological things; he wasn’t as bold or as argumentative as he’d become (which I’m sure was an age thing) and (and this was most important) he didn’t seem bothered by wearing a nappy and protection at home. He wore his booster undies to school because even he wasn’t brave enough for his class mates to know he wore that kind of protection, but, all in all, I saw little in the way of resentment.  

I’m not sure that he liked his padded underpants much but they were better than anything else for school. Although, he always appeared relieved when home and could just wander about wearing a soft nappy that gently held things in place.

His nightly wetting continued so needed extra insulation for sleeping in but I suggested (making sure he was waterproof), that if we went anywhere special he might then also consider wearing extra padding. The fear of having an accident in public meant his anxiety levels were already high so was predisposed to that particular argument. Almost relieved he wore additional covering on any visit away from home.   

Unexpectedly, once at home and in a nappy Terry seemed a lot more at ease, although if I wasn’t around, he’d search me out and want a hug at every opportunity. I’m convinced that extra bit of wadding made him emotional and dependent. Now, I’m only human and desperately wanted that affection from my boy. So, big decision; as I was finding Terry much more compliant (and I have to admit more loving) I fostered the idea that a nappy would benefit the healing process. I also suggested that he drink lots of fluids, mainly water, to keep his damaged penis well-flushed to avoid infection. He took to this theory, apparently relieved he could hide his damaged penis away in the folds of the soft fabric.

I encouraged him to think for himself but affirmed my opinion that he always looked happy once wearing a nappy. I constantly told him that comfort and happiness were what he should aim for and that other people’s opinion shouldn’t be worried about. Whenever he was in a nappy I have to admit I was all smiles and reassurance, which I think put him at ease with that part of the situation at least.

I’d occasionally hear him mumbling or sometimes singing to himself; Happy=Nappy, Nappy=Happy, Happy=Nappy, which I thought was very sweet and an indication that he was okay with the state of affairs.


I didn’t insist he wore padding; I simply let him decide the speed at which his recovery suited him best. I was amazed that he appeared to be in no rush to lose his night time protection but then again, he was habitually using it. Each morning he woke up soaked so I thought I’d pretend that it was just something that happened and not make a big deal about it. Also, in the back of my mind, I wondered if I was responsible for that as well. I mean, he’d never wet before the operation and now... well... something psychosomatic happened in his sleep which made getting to the toilet a nonstarter.  Off course, the gallons of liquid I encouraged him to drink might have had something to do with it as well.

He seemed grateful that I wasn’t chastising him for it and became more and more reliant on such padding. He gave the impression it was what he needed to feel secure and to be honest, he was so affectionate, looked cute and happy so didn’t want to upset such emotions.  

The thing I suspected was that he was feeling guilty about wetting every night and he thought that I thought heavy protection was needed. So, when he was well bundled up he didn’t object because either he also thought it was needed or he didn’t want to argue because he wanted to please me. Whichever way, my boy was always well-padded at night so each of us was doing our bit.

So, perhaps guilt was a deciding factor in what we both did?


Without forcing anything I made it known that a nappy had my approval and he shouldn’t be ashamed if he found it useful for his own requirements. Also, I could see he was anxious about wetting. So again, without making a big thing about it, I advised that he should be able to wear protection where and when he liked, and not just for sleeping, if it made him feel safer.  As a result I always laid out a pre-folded nappy and vinyl pants on his bed or dresser so they were available for whenever he felt the need.    

Later, when Bradley came to stay, I thought that might make a difference but, after our guest’s little accident, I saw a way of having two boys wearing protection and then Terry wouldn’t necessarily feel he was the only one. I couldn’t help but be chuffed with the uncanny way things worked out.

After all the conflict poor Bradley had witnessed I think he was relieved to be with people who loved each other. Without trying too hard he could see Terry and I cherished each other, he even saw that when it came to putting my son in his nappy, there was no strife and he accepted it as the most natural thing to do. I sensed this quickly made inroads in to our little guests mind and, as we had no problem with it, he must have thought nor should he... so he didn’t.

Terry encouraged Bradley; Bradley looked up to Terry, and as he wore a nappy to bed, didn’t find it too strange to have to wear one also. I was really pleased with how speedily the nine year old came to terms with the idea of protection being something appropriate to wear to sleep in at least.

Having two boys sometimes running around the house wearing just nappies was quite a sight. I have to say it brought out my mothering instinct to an even higher degree (and I thought I was already at a pretty lofty level) and all I wanted to do was preserve their innocent fun both gave the impression to be enjoying.

I think like Terry, young Bradley really liked the attention of having his padding changed and the various ointments smoothed into his nappy area. It makes for a very intense link and after all the drama he’d been through, he appeared to enjoy this personal connection. Again, I didn’t demand our guest wear one it just turned out that way, although in truth little Bradley did have a few issues that a nappy certainly helped with.


Once Jane took Bradley away to start a new life together I worried that Terry would start to feel alone again, so I came up with a new idea. Financially we’d always been comfortable but not excessively so, however, when a sudden windfall materialised I saw an opportunity to do something we’d never even thought about before.

Up until then we’d always had our summer holidays in the UK but I wondered if being exposed to different cultures might be another ‘distraction’ from which he would benefit. We started to spend a few of the longer school holidays in the Mediterranean where he loved the sun, sea and sand. As it turned out it wasn’t so much of a culture change, more of a climate change... he just loved the hot weather.

With the time waiting at airports and then the possibility of the flight being delayed, I recommended he be well padded for the journey. He didn’t take to the idea immediately but when I implied it was for hygienic reasons (keeping his penis from being infected and not having to queue up for a messy toilet) he seemed more on board with the concept.

The thing is... to me there appears to be nothing wrong with his penis. It has healed and apart from a red scar, which I suppose is something but not that troublesome, I can’t see much of a problem. Of course Terry has his own opinion and the constant wetting has made him very aware of that area and still thinks it is something distasteful and to be hid away. The fact that he finds keeping it concealed behind a ream of material socially acceptable is up to him... and of course, I do not discourage him in that belief.

I have mentioned on more than one occasion that cleanliness is next to godliness so he is scrupulous about having a pristine nappy always accessible. I use both disposables and fabric nappies (depending on when and where we’re going) but he prefers thick, soft fabric ones and they are always contained within his favourite soft vinyl pants... of which there are many.


Even wearing his protection on balmy sultry Mediterranean evenings and we go out to dinner the bulk never seems to bother him. In fact, if anything, he’s out of his reserve, more than happy to socialise and gets on with people; strangers hold no fear for him. Whether this is simply down to being in a different country, or the sun has a positive effect on him, it’s a personality change I’ve noticed because he’s never this open back home.  

On more than one occasion his protection would be observed but it didn’t faze him. He’d just brave out what was said or, if they appeared genuinely interested, explain his need for it all. I’d never been more proud of my son than at those times.


As my boy has gotten older he still has a need for padding. The night time especially is still a wet event, which I really don’t know if he’s making happen or simply does no longer have any control. In fact, he now wears protection most of the time. He’s not embarrassed by it nor does he feel disadvantaged because it’s his choice. I hope I’m not fooling myself but... I’ve never made him have to wear a nappy; it has always been up to him... and he appears to be thriving on it.

However, from those first few weeks when he wore one to protect his injured penis I saw how much more comfortable it appeared to make him. The fact at the same time he started to wet at night made it more convenient for him to wear one as often as he felt appropriate. Now I have an affectionate fourteen year old that just happens to wear a nappy.

I continue to buy new products as they come on the market just so he has choice but I don’t require him to wear them either... I just give him the option. He has told me that it feels strange when he doesn’t have the protection tightly wrapped around his ‘bits’ and likes the padded bolster when he’s out and about. I think it gives him some sort of extra confidence. Of course I’ve never discouraged what he wears because there is something about a teenager still dependent on nappies that is quite endearing... well to me anyhow.

We hug a lot. I pat the nice soft cushion that he seems so content to wear and hear that soft rustle of his plastic cushion. I think we both get something from that sound which is mutually beneficial.

Whether at home, where he spends most of his time wearing only his protection, or when in a different country, where he sports the more colourful of his leak-proof pants... to see him completely at ease with whatever he decides to wear is very pleasing.

I always said that a nappy makes him happy and he seems to support that idea and... I couldn’t be happier myself.

My boy hasn’t grown out of nappies, he’s grown into them.

## The End ##

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