by Cute Kitten
Let the padded times roll.
That was Sam’s plan for Mardi Gras in New Orleans, anyway. Was being the operative word. What better place to be diapered under his clothes and go unnoticed than in a big crowd of drunken revelers? Fat Tuesday was the last big hurrah of the Carnival season, everyone in costumes, plastic beads and confetti everywhere, getting their last kicks and indulgences in before dawn brought somber Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent.
This was the third day of his vacation, and he hadn’t been diapered once. He didn’t even put a dress or skirt on. He thought being in a place full of strangers he’d never see again would give him the courage to put a diaper on and go out in public for the first time. No matter where he went, even far from home, his cowardice traveled with him. Everywhere he was still a giant chicken.
Sam snorted and pushed his crawfish gumbo around with his plastic white spork, careful not to slop any of the brownish red sauce over the bowl’s rim. He’d been eating at this little hole in the wall near his motel every day for lunch. And supper.
And doing what he always did. Move to a new place and immediately establish a new routine to help himself feel comfortable and stable, when what he wanted to do was shake things up. No routines, no plans. Live spontaneously for once. Go out in a diaper and a dress instead of carrying them around in his plain dark purple backpack with the small, cute pink werewolf keychain plushy he’d gotten from a street vendor selling t-shirts, hats, and toys to tourists.
In his defense, the food here was delicious. The menu and sign on a wall above him with a picture of a dark skinned Creole woman, her hair wrapped up in a scarf, claimed some of the recipes were passed down from the infamous voodoo queen herself, Marie Laveau. He didn’t know how true that was, but he liked the matronly woman who owned and ran the joint, Ms. Yvonne. Maybe it was his age, only 18, or his pretty, feminine baby face that tugged on her motherly instincts, but she tended to hover. Especially once she learned he was traveling all by himself at such a tender age and just out of highschool. He hoped it wasn’t pity for his disability, but he didn’t get those vibes off her.
The most courage he’d been able to muster was to ask her for a lobster bib, even though he wasn’t eating lobster. A fancy dish like that was out of his budget. Other patrons wore the thin plastic bibs for their lobsters or crabs, and the sight gave him a small boost of confidence. He fit right in. Perfectly normal. Except nobody else wore a bib to eat gumbo.
He asked Ms. Yvonne in a small voice, his big blue eyes fixed firmly on his lap, baby soft cheeks pink in embarrassment, for a bib. “Of course, sweetheart.” She melted at how timid the delicate boy before her was. His slender hands shook with nerves, heart pounding, as he tried and fumbled to tie it around his neck. With a glance at his metallic purple forearm crutches leaning against the wall, she tied it for him.
He blushed hard and tried to protest- he felt like he was taking advantage of her, but his fingers trembled too much for him to tie it. So she insisted and did it for him. He always made sure to leave her a generous tip.
Now every time he came in, he insisted on tying his own bib but Ms. Yvonne waved him off each time and tied it for him. Nobody in the various lunch and dinner crowds gave him any weird looks; he blended right in with the crowd. Normal. He looked normal. Quite a few giggly, tipsy college girls from Bourbon Street sent him flirty smiles and fluttered their lashes at him while a few buzzed guys winked and smiled.
Cheeks red, he ignored the lustful looks, too shy and insecure to react. His crutches leaned against the cracked plaster wall, and his ankle braces were hidden under baggy jeans and wide boots. He wondered how many of those winks and smiles would last once they saw him get up and walk?
Sam scooped up a bite of crawfish, rice, and vegetables- chopped onion, celery, and bell peppers, the Cajun trinity. His pretty doll looks garnered attention and initial attraction from women and men alike. His thick black hair was stylishly tousled, his alabaster skin baby smooth with full pink lips, and his big sky blue eyes were framed by long inky black lashes. It never went beyond that- soon as they saw his crutches, realized he couldn’t run or rock climb or keep up with them, wasn’t “normal”- all interest faded. Shifted to an awkward mix of embarrassment, regret, and pity, expressions reading ‘Oops sorry thought you were normal but you’re different and I’m sorry but I just can’t handle that so I’m no longer interested but I don’t wanna look like a jerk help how do I get out of this?’
He did what he always did and ignored it. He was too much of a mess, too much of a freak, for a relationship. Deep down he wanted one, longed to find his soul mate. But who would want a disabled boy? Who liked to wear dresses? Who liked to wear and use diapers? Degenerate perverted weirdo. In a previous century, he could’ve been a circus sideshow attraction. Ladies and gentlemen, step right up! Come see the cross-dressing, diaper pissing gimp!
Sam cringed at the cynical thoughts and pushed his gumbo around. He thought leaving home, a change of location, would give him the guts to expand his boundaries more. In the privacy of his bedroom, when he was all alone, he was comfortable with his diapers. Could wet himself easily. He had a small collection of dresses he only wore at home. He took a few below the neck selfies and posted to a few forums for feedback and everyone cooed over how pretty he was, his slender androdgynous form. He was a boy, but a soft pretty boy that with the right angles passed easily for a pretty girl.
It wasn’t a fetish for him. Diapers provided a sense of security and comfort, lessened his anxiety and helped him stay calm. Maybe it was a weird coping mechanism for his lonely childhood. As a small child, his parents fought a lot; they were on again- off again, his father in and out of his life until he was out for good with only the occasional phone call. His mom bounced from place to place; he lived all over the country, changing one slum for another as his mother chased one high after another and ran from the police. His childhood was a string of roach-infested motels, falling apart, slumlord apartments, and occasionally living out of a car with his mom. She stripped for money, getting by on what remained of her once-vibrant beauty, but blew most of her money on drugs. He was a child who fell through the cracks in an overburdened, outdated system, and they moved on so fast and so often making friends was impossible and not worth the effort.
Dresses and skirts he just liked. They were comfortable, like his diapers. They didn’t turn him on; he just felt pretty and cute and they gave him more ways to express himself, wider fashion choices. What was so wrong about a boy in a skirt? Some younger male celebrities did photoshoots in skirts, and some haute couture fashion designers put their male models in dresses, but that was considered avant garde.
Were his fashion taste and underwear preferences really so wrong? He wasn’t hurting anyone. He’d keep his diapers well concealed in public. No one would know. Nothing stopped him from getting up right now, going to the cramped, one stall bathroom and putting on the pullup and skirt he carried around in his bag, just waiting until he plucked up the courage to put them on. That courage was MIA. Every night in his motel, he promised himself tomorrow was the day. Every morning, he put his skirt and pullup, which was much thinner and more discreet than a diaper so he’d feel more confident wearing it in public, in his purple bag and told himself he’d put it on later. Later, later later. Never. Until it was time to go home and he’d be full of regret, kicking and berating himself for a coward and wasting this opportunity.
It didn’t have to be that way. Get up! Go! Now! Seize the day! He only had one life to live, so go live it his way!
Sam didn’t move. His slender fingers nervously toyed with the edge of his white thin plastic bib with a picture of a red lobster on it. His heart sped up just thinking about it. Change, in public? This was an old building and the bathroom was so tiny, not ADA friendly at all. It was probably a grandfathered in exception. He wouldn’t be able to manage at all, fumbling with the bag, his pants and boxer briefs, then sliding on the pull up while trying to stay balanced on his crutches or leaning against the wall and hoping he didn’t fall. No, it was too awkward and risky. Even if he managed it, coming out dressed in different clothes would be too weird. What would the other patrons think? They probably wouldn’t notice. But Ms. Yvonne? Nope, way too risky. Better to change in the privacy of his motel. Tomorrow morning, he’d wear his pull-up and a skirt. And this time he wouldn’t chicken out.
With a sharp nod and promise to himself, Sam slurped up a big scoop of gumbo. Reddish brown sauce trickled down his chin and dropped onto his bib, but he didn’t notice. Tomorrow he would also try another place to eat. New Orleans was a big city with a wide variety of restaurants, a foodie’s wet dream, and he’d been promising himself the same lies for three days now.
Something kept calling him back here, a feeling, an instinct insisting he needed to be here. It was important. A premonition he couldn’t shake, so he came. He told himself it was just his usual fear and anxiety acting up and making him seek out anything familiar. Deep down in his bones, in his heart, he knew it was more than that.
The one thing he hated most about himself. The thing that made him a super freak and as far from normal as one could get. Precognition. Clairvoyance- the supposed ability to get information about a person, object, place, or event through extrasensory perception.
Sam crushed his lower lip between his teeth to suppress a snarl. Bullshit. That pseudoscience garbage didn’t exist. Nothing more than coincidences and the mind playing tricks on itself. Yet despite his refusal to believe, sometimes he just knew things. Like the various times he was little and his mom almost brought a john who an undercover cop back to their sleazy motel. Or the time he’d interrupted his mother scoring another hit and making her leave just before a rival drug lord and his thugs shot up the place. Due to his crying and begging, she couldn’t complete her buy so she dragged Sam out and around the remains of an old caved in garage and was about to beat him black and blue with a belt when the gunfire rang out. They’d have been dead if they’d been in the crackhouse a moment longer.
Sheer dumb luck. If that psychic shit was real, how come he never picked a winning lottery ticket?