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Dreamer                                                                                                                                   by Les Lea

I stretched, yawned and wriggled myself awake. I reached for my phone to check the time - 7.28 - fantastic, the best continuous night’s sleep I’d had for quite some time. Well, apart from a visit to the bathroom for a piss but otherwise, over ten hours. I was quite pleased with myself.

I laid in my warm cocoon knowing that any minute I had to get up for school but so pleased with myself for catching up on what had been a few awful restless nights, I wanted to make the most of my bed’s welcoming comfort.

I slipped my hand further under the blanket and rubbed up against the thick plastic pants, the huge expanded bulk underneath told me I hadn’t had the wonderful damp-free night I thought I’d had.

How come I can dream of going to the toilet and executing a wonderful, no-hassle pee, yet in reality I can never rouse myself from the sleep I’m having? Even when I’m having a terrible night’s sleep, with constant wakeful interruptions, it’s when I doze, even for a few seconds that my bladder tends to operate under its own terms.

In my dreams I can simply get up and go. Mind you, I tend not to be wearing thick padding in my dreams so can easily access my straining cock. I suppose that’s another thing; how come I dream so much of taking a piss? There’s never any huge build up to it, I just go and feel the relief afterwards as if I’d naturally gone to the loo. I can often hear my pee hitting the water or bouncing off the porcelain so that makes me think that my dream is real and I’m doing it for real. Except I’ve slept through the entire event and flooded my nappy, though I have to admit that is a lot better than a waterlogged bed, which, in the past, I had to contend with on far too many occasions.

I hope one day someone can explain just how that works because so far doctors, relations and even Google have been unable to come to any agreement on the matter. I’ll grant that they all have good ideas but the actual reason appears to be one hell of a mystery.

I mean, how can it be that for the most part of my life, well since I was three to just a few months ago I slept happily dry but not so now? As far as I can remember there’s been no trauma or accident or anything that could have caused me to suddenly lack the ability to get up in the night for a pee. It’s simply ridiculous.

How can I dream the action but not action the action?


My bedroom door opens and in walks mum. A few weeks ago she used to knock first but now I’m in nappies she seems to think she can come in when she likes. I’ve tried to explain this to her, that I need some privacy, but she just ignores my request and simply refuses to see my argument. She says that now I’m wetting secrecy is a thing of the past. Apparently she’s there to make sure I’m awake and remind me I have school (as if I wasn’t aware) and to make sure that these unfortunate incidents haven’t had an adverse effect on me.

“Just making sure you’re okay and slept well... and both your father and I want you to know... this will pass before long.”

Actually, what I think she’s doing is checking her plan of putting me back in night time nappies and plastic protection is working and that her precious bedding is safe.

I first wet the bed almost three months ago and mum was quick to suggest I wore a nappy. Of course I resented the very idea but she said that her brother, my Uncle Tom (who now lives in Australia), had a similar problem when he was my age and their mother’s quick decision to make him wear protection had saved everyone a load of heartache.

Like me he disagreed with her solution to the problem, and also like me found he had no option. It was simple, cheap and completely effective in what it had to do, whilst a consensus of family opinion meant that a nappy was the answer so, as a shy teenager like me, he didn’t get a say in that particular outcome.

My gran (a strong-willed woman to say the least) had been definite that the bed, bedding, jammies and the self-esteem of not swirling around in a sea of urine made it so no one but her son was affected by his burst of incontinence. Apparently he wore that bedtime protection for another twelve months or so before he seemed to “Grow out of it”.

Mum applied the same logic to me and despite my teenage tantrum, denials and pleading, I was put back into nappies and made to wear vinyl pants to avoid any chance of leakage. The speed that mum had everything at her disposal was frightening, as if she’d expected me to have this problem at some point in my school life.

She alleged that after that first morning of finding me in a wet bed she remembered Tom’s problem and immediately went into overdrive, locating everything she thought I’d need online and spent the day collecting it. She said she wouldn’t allow me to have a second night wallowing around in a pee-soaked bed, especially when there was such a simple preventative system she intended putting into practice.

I came home from school to find my dresser just a pile of fabric nappies and a couple of packets containing ‘baby’ pants.  There was a small bowl with baby pins (pink, green and blue) and an array of powders and creams, I was stunned mum had garnered together this arsenal of products to take care of my one night of bed-wetting. It was a huge surprise for a fourteen year old schoolboy.

I found these ranks of supplies for an accidental, once in a lifetime wet bed, a bit over the top and quite wounded by just how convinced she was that I’d need it all. Waking up to such a mishap was an ordeal (and awful shock) in itself and although I wasn’t expecting too much sympathy I did think she’d see it as just a freak event. It wasn’t like I’d been secretly drinking or got myself into a state... it was simply misfortune.

As I lay on my bed and looked at the stuff I wondered why, if she thought I needed it, she hadn’t just bought a pack of Pampers disposables and then seen how things progressed from there. That pile suggested she was getting ready for a long campaign, whilst I thought it was just a one off, a misfortune and nothing to go to such extremes over. As far as I was concerned this wasn’t a calamity - just an unlucky accident.

I tried to argue that point but she wouldn’t heed my objection and said it was best to be on the safe side. She was of the firm opinion that making sure my bed and bedding was defended from ‘further urinary damage’ should I pee again, was a worthy principle; laundry would be less and I’d be the only one affected. She couldn’t see a downside to her argument and I failed to defend my case with any hope of success. She promised that if I didn’t wet for a ‘few’ (unspecified) nights then she’d re-think the nappies. I looked at the supplies piled up on the dresser and knew she was expecting the worst.


Actually, when I think about it, this wasn’t the first time I’d wet the bed.

When I’d just turned twelve I was having trouble sleeping, I didn’t know why I just was having such terrible interrupted nights. My brain would fixate on one subject (usually of no relevance to anything I could recall) and would lie in bed tossing and turning as if trying to shake the thing from my brain.

At the time mum was also having trouble sleeping and was using a programme of ‘natural sounds and delta waves’ to enable a peaceful night’s slumber. It appeared to have worked, as she was far more relaxed and offered the IPad to see if it would do the same for me.

Mum herself was against using pills and ‘medicine’ at the best of times and preferred either to let nature take its course (as with colds and flu) or try something natural, like sounds and meditation. As the sounds had some effect on her, suggested I give it a try.

I scrolled down the ‘relaxing sounds’ section and found one I thought would work for me – Rain Forest. I was expecting the night calls and general wind-in-trees type of thing but in fact it was just as it said; rain... in the rain forest.

I don’t know how or why it happened but I woke up in quite a large puddle of my own pee. I was shocked and worried what mum would say but she just laughed (yes laughed) and said she found it funny that the rain forest had made me soak my PJs. However, she also explained that was why all our mattresses in the house had protectors over them... because you never knew when a nocturnal mishap might occur.

Anyway, despite her good humour on that occasion, as she stripped the bed and sent me to get a shower she did say that if it happened again, for whatever reason, I’d be wearing nappies to sleep in from then on. I think she was just firing a warning shot because I didn’t pee the bed again until, well, I’ve just told you. However, the speed she got all the stuff together made me think that maybe she had some items already.

Meanwhile, I dumped those little night rhythms and sounds and slept without any help from the Amazonian Rain Forest or any other supposedly relaxing therapy.


I can tell you that at fourteen years old I dreaded any of my friends finding out but in our small community, and mum being a very chatty person with all the neighbours, my secret couldn’t last long.

However, she did say that I wasn’t the only one with such a ‘problem’ but wouldn’t tell me who the other person(s) were. I spent quite a bit of time scrutinising the washing lines between my home and school for some indication. I thought if my nappies were blowing in the wind, which they seemed to be on a daily basis then there was a good chance theirs would be too. I did see the occasional pair of plastic pants and nappies drying on the line but thought they were too small to belong to anyone but a baby.

Knowing there were others, but finding no evidence to back mum’s declaration, I began to feel alone and a bit stupid. I mean, staring at folks washing was definitely a bit pervy. However, the main problem was... why should I start pissing the bed? Suddenly I was waking up to a soaked nappy (much to mum’s ‘I told you so’ attitude). It just didn’t make any sense unless I was regressing back to my childhood.

However, like I told you when I was twelve, any last thought at night began to occupy my nocturnal deliberations and sleep was difficult. When I did drop off I dreamt of babies (of which I was one) and when awake that notion just kept turning over in my mind. It was uncomfortable on so many levels, none of which I was happy with... I just wanted to sleep at night and wake up dry.

Don’t ask me why that particular ‘being a baby’ theory should have taken over my mind but it did. (I suppose the nightly nappy and plastic pants made a bigger impression on my psyche than I’d given it credit for.) I convinced myself that’s just what I was and daily got more and more depressed as I thought about it. I slipped from being a reasonably outgoing lad, to a self-pitying toddler.

Each night, as I fitted my nightly cushion of protection, I felt myself slipping further and further back to my childhood. I’d get upset if I couldn’t get the pins in right, or I’d not fastened the nappy on tight enough. I was a mess and, if no one else was around, I’d even shed a few miserable, frustrated tears. Pulling up the plastic pants (which mum insisted I always wore with a nappy) more or less proved I was a baby. So that act and thought would stick with me and the entire dream scenario would kick off again. It was like that particular theme was on constant replay.


Equally, if I managed to avoid that specific dream the other one, the one where I knew I was peeing into a toilet, took centre stage. I’d confidently spray the white ceramic bowl, listening to the splash that indicated my aim was true, often zipping up and moving on to continue to do whatever it was I was doing before my toilet break. It was two very exacting dreams; one where I was a baby, the other where I was myself, but both ended with a wake-up call of soggy misery.

However, they weren’t the only two because later I dreamt I was in church, singing along with the rest of the congregation when suddenly I felt the spirit of the Lord enter me... except it wasn’t the spirit of the Lord. That nice warming glow that was wonderful and uplifting was a tepid sodden nappy when I woke up.

The reason this was strange was that as a family, we didn’t go to church. Mum and dad weren’t interested and the only times I remember going was for a wedding and a couple of Christenings, other than that my experience of church was limited. However, I do watch a lot of television and it is more than likely that I was influenced by something I saw... but I don’t know what.

What was even worse was that it wasn’t every morning that I woke up soaked. For instance, last Monday and Tuesday I was dry. I was jubilant for twenty four hours but Wednesday night I wet, Thursday was dry but this morning... incredibly soaked. Of course, the few weeks prior I’d wet almost every night so even when I did wake up dry the feelings of euphoria only lasted a short while.

Mum had gone out of her way to make sure that the rubber pants she bought were the most sturdy she could find, so the things I had to wear at night gripped me tightly so there was no danger at all of fluid escape. I even went back to wearing jammies over them in the hope of disguising the bulk a little bit but in the end I was so hot I could hardly bear wearing anything to sleep in other than what I had to.


Although nappies were the first recourse for mum she did, after visits to the doctor and a child psychologist (which she was dead against but dad insisted I give it a go), she suggested I try yoga.

Having had all the other attempts at curbing my nightly flood fail: From drinking less, to getting woken up in the middle of the night - those relaxing tapes, to various ‘natural’ potions, it seemed an option I should at least attempt.

I just couldn’t take seriously all these po-faced, loose-limbed women (only one guy) stretching and being some kind of ‘downward dog’ or some such, left me mentally mocking the entire group. I’m sure if they knew I was a fourteen year-old still wetting the bed, they themselves might have been ridiculing me.

Anyway, I left them and tried visualisation. The trouble with this was, as soon as I found my vision, it would be usurped by my baby or toilet ‘situation’ and then that was all that occupied my head. Someone suggested to mum that I try hypnosis but she was even more sceptical about that and told her friend that she’d keep that suggestion on the back-burner for a while to see if I improved naturally. I didn’t.

So, a dry well-padded nappy with thick and durable vinyl pants became the last thing I saw at night and a wet bulky one the first thing I saw in the morning. To feel the morning tightness of an expanded pair of slippery looking plastic pants let me know, in a totally unsubtle manner, that I’d flooded again. I could have done without that particular wake-up call.

Having said that, despite that firm grip being annoying in the beginning, it didn’t take me too long to come to terms with that particular sensation. Mum had said that I should think of them like a knight relies on his armour for protection and he wouldn’t be daft enough to wonder into a battle zone wearing just his vest and pants (we both giggled at this bizarre comparison).

Although my parents were resolute in their actions they just took it as read that these things happen. Punishment or angry voices were never part of their dealing with what was going on. I suppose with Uncle Tom to point to as proof of this philosophy, I didn’t get any negativity at home. However, before they retired for the night mum or dad would come and check to make sure I wasn’t already wet because mum said I should try and prevent laying around in a damp nappy for too long. I don’t think they ever changed me whilst I slept because I’m sure I would have woken up if they’d tried. However, I wasn’t certain if I thought it weird or comforting that they checked.


As I say, mum had bought in all new stuff to cope with my situation. Mrs Pradesh, our neighbour, whose own family had grown up and moved away, offered some of the stuff they’d worn as kids should I need it but mum declined. Apparently, they’d been late in toilet training and she had quite a collection of preventative clothing. Just how late they were in coming to terms with the potty she never revealed but, judging by the size of their colourful nappies, they were at least as old as me.

I’d got around a dozen white terry fabric nappies and half a dozen different pairs of vinyl pants, some of which seemed a little more robust than others. Waking up saggy and soggy, whilst these stout pants made sure I was leak-proof, was an interesting way to start the day. I say interesting, what I mean is...not very ego boosting.  My self-esteem dipped and the need for that night time force-field was all I could think about... and became indebted to.

The paraphernalia of making sure the required area was clean, dry and (mum insisted) smooth, together with the thick preventative creams, lotions and powders I had to administer each night made bed time a complete humiliation.

Mum had talked me through the nappy operation at the beginning but then said she trusted me to do it properly myself. Then, having had one or two leaking problems because I hadn’t been thorough enough, threatened to come up and do it herself, which would mean an early bedtime of 7.30. At fourteen I didn’t want to be called in for bed that early as it would have been total humiliation for my mates to know about it... especially if she’d added that my nappy needed sorting. So, I knuckled down and made sure I did as good a job as mum in getting my nappy and protection up to speck.

She also threatened there’d be sporadic, unannounced checks and, should it not be in place correctly, it would be a 6pm bedtime and she would supervise every aspect of getting me ready “Like I did when you were a baby”.  She smiled as she said this but I’m convinced she meant it.

As you might imagine this focused my attention on every detail mum had advocated.


I tried to get dad on side but he was in complete agreement with mum and, in an effort to stop my constant grumbling promised that I’d be wearing a nappy all day as well as all night if I didn’t do as they said... and ‘stop whining’.

Dad saying that, and mum threatening a 6pm bed time, made me take my wetting a bit more seriously. I had been thinking that I shouldn’t be punished for something I had no control over but they said I wasn’t being punished for that... my wet nights were being contained. What I would be punished for was my constant complaining and miserable face, which they said they shouldn’t be punished having to look at when my wetting wasn’t their fault.

Why do parents have the clever come backs?

I have to admit since I’d started wetting I was constantly in a mood. I couldn’t see any upside to my problem and I dreaded my friends catching on... although one or two might have known, no one said anything... to my face anyway. Either side my immediate neighbours didn’t have kids my age. The Wilsons at Number 14 had twins almost two years ago, whilst the Pradesh’s at Number 18 had grown up kids who’d left and had families of their own. What this meant was that the washing line wasn’t over-looked by any of my school friends so my daily laundry was hidden from any possible prying eyes. However, both sides offered mum their support and empathy having a teenager still in need of protection.

So, as I mentioned, last night I dreamt I’d gone to the toilet with no problem, yet woke up as normal sopping wet. After three months it was all getting too much and I was severely depressed not wanting to do much or go anywhere. Then it happened, the one thing I was positive would never happen, Saturday morning I fell asleep in front of the TV and, wearing only a pair of cotton briefs under my P.E. shorts, peed myself and soaked the sofa.

~ tbc ~

Part 2

I woke up feeling snug and warm only to see the concerned and angry face of mum looking down at me.

“Get up, get up, get to the....” she yelled.

I wasn’t too sure what was happening as she pulled me to my feet and pushed me towards the doorway.

“What... erm... um... what’s up?”

“Toilet, toilet, toilet...” mum indicated with a sense of panic.

The warming glow at my crotch had registered but it was only as more warm piss trickled down the inside of my thigh I realised the problem.

I dashed from the living room up to the bathroom but it was too late, I’d emptied my bladder into my shorts and all over the sofa. I was both shocked and horrified and after a few moments of reflection... terrified as to what would happen next.

I closed the bathroom door (we didn’t have locks on internal doors) and sat on the loo with my yellowing shorts and briefs around my ankles wondering what was to come. There was nothing left in me so I shrugged off my pants and t-shirt to take a shower. Mum came in, gathered up my wet stuff and told me not to be long. The panic had gone so there was no anger in her voice and this worried me.

I tried to make the shower last as long as I dare but when I returned to my bedroom mum was waiting. To say I was apprehensive would have been an understatement. I knew mum could and did get angry but she appeared very calm and in control.

“Sit,” was her only command and I sat on my bed waiting for the punishment I knew would follow.

This latest calamitous event was new. I’d never wet during the day, and especially at home on the sofa. I expected a smacked arse (even though I’d only ever received a couple of those during my lifetime) or something physical that I’d remember for years to come... perhaps that was what I was hoping, something instant and then forgotten, but in reality I already knew the direction this would be going.

She went to the dresser and pulled out two nappies and folded them then, without telling me to, I lay out, lifted my bum and let her powder and pin me in. She appeared relieved that I wasn’t putting up an argument or fighting the situation. How could I after what I’d just done?

She flapped out a pair of colourful but thinner vinyl pants than I wore for bed and slipped them over the thick bulk. I lay there, not so much terrified, but whimpering with tears rolling down my cheeks. I’d never felt like I did – useless, stupid, childish, ridiculous and guilty. She retrieved another pair of P.E. shorts and told me to put them on.

“Not a word... no arguments... you have no say in anything until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?” She was being firm and sympathetic but adamant that I knew why this was happening.

I was too ashamed to say anything. I was blubbing so could only nod my agreement.

“I’m glad you realise these are the steps that need to be taken but, at the moment, I am angry with you for letting this happen even though I know this...”

She didn’t finish her speech.

At that moment I desperately wanted a hug. I wanted to know that even though I’d possibly ruined the furniture she knew I hadn’t done it on purpose and it was just an awful accident. She just squeezed my padding and softly told me I could return to watch TV. I hesitated for a while, hoping she would say something positive but she just waited for me to leave.

I left her in my room as I ambled down stairs crying and wondering what lay in store for me for the rest of my life. There was something else; these new plastic pants under my loose and very short shorts were much noisier than the other type I’d been wearing. The crinkle that followed each movement was a reminder of what I’d just done to the sofa... what a baby might have done on the sofa.

As I entered the living room, and as if to hammer home my situation, there was an advert for Pampers on the TV. A baby was happily being put into nappy pants that promised ‘twelve hours of protection’.  

The thick padding I now sat in promised more than that and I realised from that point on, I wouldn’t be trusted to manage my own toilet arrangements. I burst into tearful sobs which only that small but joyful baby on screen would have heard.


Mum had turned up the heating and set the fan pointing towards the sofa. I sat on the floor and wondered if this would be where I’d be directed anytime I watched the TV in future. Although my padding made it reasonably comfortable to be down there this was a place for babies and toddlers not a boy my age. However, a boy my age wouldn’t normally be wearing a nappy now would he?

Later I heard mum on the phone to some company asking if they had an emergency cleaning service... before the afternoon was out a large van with ‘All your cleaning needs’ scripted down its side arrived and took the sofa away.

Although I was used to wearing a nappy to sleep in, this thick bundle of fabric between my legs during the day felt cumbersome and annoying. It wasn’t too bad when I was sitting but if I moved or was asked to do something, it really felt like a heavy, noisy weight I had to manoeuvre around.

Meanwhile, the two men from the cleaning service came in, took one look at my obviously padded stance and smiled in acknowledgement, whilst nodding to mum as they lifted and removed the sofa. It seemed quite surreal and I didn’t realise why until they’d gone. Throughout their short but intensive visit I’d been holding mum’s hand as if a toddler. My plastic pants peaked out from the top of my shorts... uuurrggg... I’m so relieved they never said anything.


Mum made me help bring in the garden furniture to act as temporary replacements for the sofa and struggled with the nappy as I bent and twisted to keep my end of the furniture steady. It wasn’t that it was actually falling down but because of my inexperience dealing with such a bulky thing when doing more than simply laying down or sleeping, it just felt like it would fall to the ground if I didn’t keep a hold. Actually, both the plastic pants and the shorts made sure that wouldn’t happen but I couldn’t stop grabbing the material and yanking it up a bit more. I spent the rest of the day rearranging the thick padding but dare not complain to mum.

She was very civil but I knew that from that day on, a nappy was going to be my constant companion. When he got home dad saw my predicament, and the lack of a sofa, and patted my thick padding as if to indicate I should be safe from now on. I asked him if I’d have to wear a nappy the following day as I was sure it was simply an accident and never happen again. He smiled a reassuring smile but simply hugged me and told me not to worry, everything would sort itself out but in the meantime precautions had to be taken.

He asked me if I understood.

I wanted to argue or cry or do something but he looked at me as if I should understand by now what needed to be done so I nodded in agreement.

“Good boy.”


As dad spoke and hugged me I had a problem... I unintentionally filled my nappy. My sudden stillness and feeling of surprised horror must have communicated directly to him as he pulled away and looked intently at my crotch as I felt the warmness spread.

“Oh dear... not a good sign son... your mum was right all along.” He patted my warm and wet bulge.

I wasn’t sure what he meant that mum had been right all along... but he deftly guided me back upstairs, stripped me down and cleaned me up and, without thinking about it, folded a couple more nappies and pinned me tightly in. Now I was nothing but a big baby whose daddy had to keep him clean and dry. It was six o’clock in the evening and he put me to bed and told me to rest. I must have needed it because I slept right through until six the next morning and of course woke up soaked.

I remember dreaming that same annoying dream over and over again. It was the one where I was in church and receiving the blessing of a very physical Lord.  I heard his hallowed words and felt the inner warming miracle of his love flood throughout my body... no wonder I was so wet.

Even though I was awake, for some reason, I didn’t dare get out of bed. I suppose because dad put me to bed I thought I’d better wait for one of my parents to get me up. The bulky, sodden nappy was irritating me but I squirmed and tried to get back to sleep, which I must have done because when I woke again mum was already in my room tidying things up and putting washing away or stacked on the dresser.

“Morning sweetheart... let’s get you changed and into something nice and dry.”

She hadn’t even checked but assumed I’d be wet but I didn’t care to put up a fight as she, like dad had done the previous night, stripped me down, cleaned me up and pinned me into an even thicker double nappy. She slipped a pair of extremely thick clear plastic pants over the cushion I was now wearing and indicated that breakfast was ready. She never passed me any jeans or shorts and I knew not to ask because from that moment on, whilst in the house, I wasn’t allowed to wear any pants.

However, I plucked up the courage. “Mum, this is embarrassing... can’t I wear shorts at least... I mean...”

“Look, I said no arguments and I mean it. We’ll be able to keep an eye on you better if we know what’s going on in your nappy.” Mum explained. “We don’t want our sweet boy to suffer from wearing a wet nappy for too long.... a nappy rash would be an awful thing to have to deal with as well as having to wear...”

She stopped herself from stating the obvious.

The thing was both my parents were being incredibly sympathetic; there were no outburst or accusations, no punishment or raised voices. They’d decided what needed doing. I was their fourteen year old son so they would do just that. I may not have liked it but they weren’t doing it to embarrass me. They simply wanted to minimise the disruption, however, at the time I didn’t appreciate this.

I didn’t know where I stood or what I could or should do... I just went along with what was organised. I know once there was a rebellious fourteen year-old somewhere but now there was just a nappy-wearing toddler who needed his mummy and daddy to watch over him.

Uncle Tom’s earlier predicament came to mind and I sighed heavily when I remembered he wore protection for over a year.


My parents took it all in their stride and I was encouraged to not let wearing a nappy hold me back at all but it did. I became solitary and insular, I refused to meet my friends or engage in sport, even the games I loved. Wearing a nappy became who I was and I hated it but found that it would be wet when I had no idea I’d done so.  

Because of this the padding was quite thick and was impossible to hide what I was wearing. My self-confidence disappeared and I was nervous and anxious about everything and everyone... even my best friends.

I couldn’t take the ribbing at school and cried almost nonstop at what I thought was class and teacher cruelty. In fact it was nothing worse than what I’d dealt out at one time or other in the playground. I’d hide in the toilets for long, long periods.

Mum and dad were very supportive but as soon as they saw that I was about to get swallowed up by depression they made sure I attacked it with venom. They insisted that I got out and played with friends, joined in games and stopped feeling sorry for myself.

“You’re only wearing a nappy for heaven’s sake - it’s not the end of the world.”

I was at my lowest ebb. I tried to stay in my bedroom, or sit quietly and watch TV but they wouldn’t have it.

“If you stopped making it such a big deal no one would even know...”

I just wanted to curl up and hide, let the world pass me by but my parents would not let me wallow for too long.

In the house they may well have been keen to track my ‘toilet’ habits but wanted me to get out and play so not be governed by what they saw as a necessary, but in no way a debilitating, nappy.

Mum eventually (and reluctantly) tracked down a hypnotherapist to give it a go. I was brought into a very relaxed state but unfortunately, I peed my pants whilst under her influence. At her suggestion, and to give me confidence, I hadn’t been wearing a nappy on that occasion so the result was obvious and disastrous. She was horrified but not quite as horrified as I was when I came out of the trance and found what had happened. Thank god it was only urine and nothing more substantial.

I didn’t go back, mainly because I was embarrassed but also because of what happened next.

The thing was, from that moment, I seemed to actually be wetting myself more, even during the day and knew nothing about it until I felt the radiating flush around my genitals. Mum insisted it would pass and should not let it control me but I was finding that advice hard, although I did now appreciate the need I had for a nappy. I would have hated wetting my pants in public... that would have been more humiliating for sure.

There were occasions I couldn’t make out what my parents expected from me; the clear plastic pants and obvious nappy at home, yet they wanted me to live a ‘normal’ life outside and at school. Sometimes the two things didn’t feel compatible.  However, mum and dad presented a united front, calm and reasonable, so it was difficult to fight. Besides, I couldn’t be sure what I’d be fighting against - they were encouraging, non-judgemental and insistent that life should go on as normal.


One of the things that became a constant reminder of my situation was my padded bottom. There was also my smooth crotch but it was my padded bum that caused me to be aware of my situation. It felt like I’d filled the seat of my pants and when it got soaked, it seemed to hang there accusingly. Sitting down was either a padded experience or a soggy one, neither of which I really liked, as it always felt like I was carrying a weight in the back of my pants.

One morning, dressed as always in my nappy and see thru plastic pants, I was sat on the (now well cleaned) sofa and was scratching at my slippery crotch. Mum, who’d been observing me for a couple of minutes, asked if I had an itch. However, before I could answer “No” she was pulling down my nightly armour to reveal my hairless genitals.

“Ohh sweetie, looks like you’ve got a bit of a rash.” She said easing everything back up and pulling me to my feet. “Best not let that get any worse,” and guided me back to my bedroom.

Lying naked on my bed and with mum giving me a total inspection, every crease and crevice was examined with her opinion that I’d been less than scrupulous drying those places. She went on how this or that area was particularly susceptible to infection and applied loads of cream and lotion. She then went on to add that from that moment on, she would be in charge of my nappy changes and that I had to ask for a change when I was wet. There was no hostility, like always it was just something that needed to be done. She smiled and said that it was like having her little boy back, which didn’t go down well with me but seemed to brighten up her day.

Actually, the rash had been quite itchy but I just didn’t want to admit to it. Now mum had discovered my festering little secret, and that I was to blame for it, she’d taken on the responsibility of curing the problem. It was another thing that proved in my mind at least that I was regressing; another task that I was regarded as too young or incompetent to complete.

Of course she couldn’t do all that whilst I was at school but I noticed (and could feel) the extra soaker pads she shoved in my nappy first thing in the morning. This meant that my padding became even more obvious but, as mum insisted, it was imperative that we get any rash under control before we sought other avenues.

I just looked like a huge-assed boy when we did any games or gym as my well-pillowed area blossomed out from the waist and leg holes of my shorts. The teachers had been told by my parents that they expected them to treat me in no way dissimilar to any other boy so I was on display throughout the session. To be honest, the gym teacher didn’t make a big thing about it... well that is... after he’d explained to the rest of the class that any comments would be severely dealt with. It was a threat but no one, least of all me, took seriously. The kids would do and say what they liked and I’d just have to put up with it.

My billowing plastic pants held things in place as I ran, climbed, kicked, vaulted, cartwheeled or the hundreds of other activities I had to do during gym or games. There were times when I’d wet my nappy whilst taking part in these actions and my clear plastic pants became a sort of window for the noisy appreciative boys who gawped in amusement as I’d tried to hide myself in the changing room.

There was obviously some degree of interest because my padding was constantly being squeezed or patted. The plastic pants (or ‘baby’ pants as they were called by most) were another object of both discussion and frenzy as they pulled at the elastic waistband and letting it snap back against my naked skin. It got annoying.


Just about every day I’d go online to try to find an explanation for those original dreams and why I still woke up wet? I couldn’t find anything that helped and things were getting worse. It was frustrating and soul-destroying; although my pants were dry the nappies were not.

Uncle Tom’s predicament meant that I might have a year or more of this but, my parents insisted, I would get over it. They weren’t worried, in fact, they seemed resigned and at ease with my predicament and expected that I should be as well.

So abusive comments, cute comments, funny comments and not just from my fellow ‘supportive’ pupils followed me around. The bulge in my pants was a cause for laughter (for them) and tears (for me), although I wasn’t going to cry in front of anyone else if I could help it. At school I just had to put up with the taunts. In the street, when anyone who didn’t know suddenly discovered a fourteen year-old still sporting that tell-tale padded groin, their ridicule hurt.

Dad offered this advice on several occasions.

“If you don’t see it as a problem... no one else will.”

He lied.

I tried to adopt a different approach. I thought if I made a feature of it... you know... pretend I was sporting the latest fashionable accessory, somehow I could convince others to think the same.

No one was fooled.

Frustrated by my lack of progress I asked mum again if they ever got to the bottom of Uncle Tom’s wetting problem.

“Well, there were several theories.”

I waited for her to continue but she seemed a little cagey.

“Mmmm, okay, well, your granny thought it was either psychosomatic...”

I had no idea what that meant or entailed.

“...although she finally thought, perhaps, maybe, he, ermm, ummm, just wanted to wear a nappy.”

 I looked at mum in astonishment.


I couldn’t believe she’d said that... or the way she was looking as if that was the same for ME.

“Mum, honestly,” I fought to get my breath back as the wind had been sucked right out. “I don’t want to wear these bloody things...”


I pressed on the bulky material hidden under my pants. There was a slight but noticeable crinkle.

“I can’t stand...”

“Look sweetheart, it doesn’t matter to...”

“Mum, honestly I don’t want to wear...”

It was then I burst into tears at the very idea mum even imagined it was something I wanted.

“Don’t worry love... whether you do or don’t... we know you need them.”

She was trying to comfort me but I thought she was telling me to accept the situation like they had.

She was patting my well-padded bottom and I just cried all the more. Then, when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I flooded my nappy, which mum knew I’d done so cried and cried in humiliation until she said she’d change me.

I waddled upstairs, mum understood I’d had a bit of an emotional breakdown of sorts, so gently removed all my wet clothes and replaced them with a super soft terry nappy and thick white rubber pants.

“It’s okay sweetheart, we understand. You’ll grow out of it like your Uncle did...”

A little voice asked “When?”

I couldn’t believe the voice was mine it was so soft and childlike.

“Well, it was a month after his eighteenth birthday and he’d gone an entire four weeks without wetting... so... your grandmother let him out of them and he never went back.”

“But, but, but... I’m only fourteen...”

“Yes we know love... don’t worry.”




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