I’m pinned against a wall and I think I know why.
You gave me two chances to admit what I’d done. You allowed me to roll the dice as if you were Clint fucking Eastwood from Dirty Harry. Well, I’m a punk, and I’m decidedly too dumb for luck. You hit me like a wall of bricks gets hit by the Cool-aid guy. “No? – we’ll see about that!” you say as you send my pants to my ankles faster than I’ve ever undone a bra.
My first “No” came this evening on the T. We were clinging to the poles somewhere around Kendall or Central, wedged in between a woman who believes full-volume is the only volume, and a neckbeard talking shamelessly about Call of Duty to another neckbeard. Your eyes did the thing where they looked at my eyes and then snapped down to my waist – below my waist - and then back again.
I caught you looking at my package! It’s true! OK ok, it’s disingenuous, but you were looking at my package, right there on the rattling tracks. In this case, my package is a diaper, but nobody except you is counting. Deep beneath my winter coat and my dark jeans is a plastic disposable brief, and you’re asking in the least lewd way whether or not I’ve peed into it.
This is an outrage. You changed me right before we left on this dinner-date! That’s like checking for license and registration three hundred yards from the dealership. Yes, I’m in diapers, but do you think my bladder is the size of a peanut? It’s like you think my throat leads directly to my dick, in a constant waterfall. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! (I only said one no and I smiled very proudly when I said it). My diaper is as dry as California, you nanny-state jerk.
Time passes by and date-night continues. We chose some place near Park, one that had little candles on the tables. They even had us place our coats on a rack. Fancy. Of course, that’s a setback to me: I liked wearing my coat because it concealed my inflated rump. Worse, the restaurant is making up for their rent by jamming the floor, so as you scoot along to our seat like a goddamn ice-skater, I’m ducking and weaving around chairs trying to avoid butt-bashing my plastic derriere into someone’s head. Nikki Manaj, I feel you. Of course, I’m not worried anyone’s going to find out, I’ve been in diapers long enough to know people don’t pay attention to that stuff. You, citing recent history, put me in the thickest one we had, and stuffed in a booster to boot (think swifter pad). Remember that dealership analogy? this diaper is a MACK truck. I’m practically waddling, and nobody is and ever has been the wiser. Still, few people like to be tea-bagged by a grown man’s padded bum, so I avoid butting people.
My second ‘no’ comes after we’ve downed the first glass bottle of water and the server has snatched our menus. “I’ll be real quick,” you say. As if I don’t know, you add; “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Queue an eye roll to your pedantic leading-by-example. You’ve been on a campaign about potty training; and how you shouldn’t have to put a 24-year-old into diapers. Yeah, yeah… the truth is you don’t have to. I’ll figure it out if you just let me fly, but you’re on this earn-it mentality that lacks serious inspiration. Earning it will take forever and I have better things to do.
When you get back, you brag some more. The bathroom has got a big mirror and it’s spick and span and stone and everything, and I should really check it out, unless I’ve already gone.
“No, I haven’t,” I say. Gosh, not right now, they’re people around! Pesky people, with superior powers of deduction! I can see your grin as you swish you wine before you sip, and I conceal a timid blush by snatching the last of the bruschetta. I look to the hipster in close proximity at the other table: his date probably thinks that his cheese knowledge is so exquisite, or this is the second date and she already hates him. On our other side is a glamorous rendezvous, and I can see my reflection in the female’s lipstick. She’s looking at his tie and perfectly matched suit and thinking rich, but I know he’s looking at her and thinking titties. Neither pairing is remotely privy to my big stupid diapers.
The only thing that would make them more bonkers than knowing this six-foot two dude had between his thighs was if they knew what crazy shit was going on in your head. You’re out to get me, if that wasn’t already obvious by this being a kink story. My heart is thumping, and my hand is quivering so much I turn pasta-eating into a ballistics demonstration. If you catch me in yet another compromised diaper, it’s going to be one of those “Make the grade or summer school” sort of evenings. Despite what I insist are good marks, you’ll maintain that I was the bottom of the class and will re-schedule ‘Biology: The Maximum Temperature of Buttcheeks.’
I never had a dog, so “my parakeet ate my homework” was the only (non)-option in school days, yet for this there had to be an excuse. “I, your sweet and innocent honey, peed my pants because…”
Ok, maybe there aren’t many excuses.
Favors? No…those are lame. “How about afterwards,” you’ll cackle. I’ll only make things worse.
A gift? Now that’s a good idea…every chronic miscreant like myself should posses ‘pocket tribute,’ in the form of a tangible item to exchange for one’s skin. Please Attila! Unfortunately, this one takes planning, and on this cold winter’s night, nobody’s shops are open.
Even though were off up the stairs and through the door, I’m so wrapped up in puzzling out my legal defense that I say ‘no’ the third time you ask. Doh!
Fast forward and my cheek is against the drywall.
The hand not on my back pressures the seat of my undergarment, procuring its hallmark crinkle. A dutiful TSA agent, you finish your inspection by sending your hand forward in a gratuitous squeezing of the fore-area, exacting a hop and a yelp. Of course, all of it is unnecessary: wet diapers turn yellow and ship with a special chemical decal that distorts when moist, but you feel me up anyway because you are a pervert.
“When did this happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
A pause. Your tone is clinical and thoughtful. I’d rather a doctor than a detective. Maybe I’ll survive!
“Was it…before we got home?”
“In the restaurant?”
“Before the restaurant?”
“How long before the restaurant?”
“I don’t know.”
“On the subway?”
I pause. Burying my face as deeply against the wall as I can. I sigh. “Yes.”
We are silent. Both your hands are still on me, and mine are still on the wall. We breathe, a clock ticks. It’s winter, so all the fucking crickets are dead, but they probably would be cricketing. Somewhere, the hipster guy is banging with his socks on, and the other two are probably spicing it up and going doggie. The time we spend here is near interminable.
When you finally speak, you keep a steady voice. “I need to punish you,” you say.
I should have known. It’s such a silly thing, to have sealed your fate so many hours ago, with something usually so innocuous. I could argue that your emphasis tonight isn’t fair, but it’ll be no use. Past excuses, favors, and gifts, I remember something much simpler; an apology. Although it serves a purpose, it doesn’t mean it came from anywhere but the heart.
“That’s what you think?” you say, almost with a laugh. “That’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m punishing you because you lied…not once, not twice, but three times.”
I turn around to see your smirking face.
I don’t have time to say ‘FUCK.’
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