My Nightmares Have Become Dreams
[i]The crowd is cheering as I stand almost on the halfway line at Wembley Stadium. I have just scored the most spectacular long-range goal of my career in this, the final game that will determine the Premier League title. One hundred thousand people are shouting my name “Joey, Joey, Joey”. One hundred thousand people’s eyes are on me as I become aware that… all was not what it appears.
I don’t understand. As I stand with my arms held aloft in celebration, everything suddenly goes quiet. Where has my shirt disappeared to? Why are my shorts suddenly slipping down my thighs… and why can I do nothing to prevent this from happening? Here I am, alone in the middle of the pitch, naked but for a thick nappy and the crowd starts laughing at me. I see my image up on the big screen. The terry-towelling nappy is held together at the front by a single huge pink safety pin. It all looks so thick and immense in close-up.
The laughter grows as I try to hide my embarrassment; the big screen captures every detail. There is nowhere to hide and I can do nothing to conceal my shame. There appears to be no one else on this hallowed turf to protect me. No team mates, no opposing team… where have they all gone?
The supporter’s laughter reaches hysterical levels as they point and shout - wondering if I wanted my mummy…
‘Do you want your bot-bot changing?’
‘Do you need a dummy?’
‘Ahhh, poor widdle baby’.
They all appear to be screaming baby-talk at me and as they do so, the flow of warm piss into my nappy is picked up by the camera, as is the fact that I am now on the verge of tears.
The crowd’s mocking intensifies.
Abruptly, as if from nowhere, a man in black appears by my side. I recognise him as a referee and he is carrying something. He pulls a whistle from his mouth and sticks it in my own but it isn’t his whistle, it’s a dummy, all pink and bulbous. I suck on it briefly and it restores some calm but then he thrusts a teddy bear into my arms, which for some reason I gratefully accept and start to cuddle. That’s when my bowels let loose and I fill my nappy once more only now, the camera picks out the huge discolouration on the seat. The big screen displays my disgrace, while a hundred thousand voices rise in laughter filling my head as I am led crying from the field of play, waddling slowly in my heavy, sagging nappy, towards the exit. [/i]
The noise rouses me from my sweaty dream. The alarm clock radio was on full blast and playing some heavy hard thrash music. This isn’t what I want to wake up to but neither is the state of my bed and worst of all, my PJs.
This is the fourth night in a row that I’ve had the same dream. A moment of absolute triumph is destroyed to become a distressing nightmare. This is also the fourth time I have messed my bed and the commotion of my noisy alarm clock and my sudden yelp of realisation as to what has happened had brought my mum into my room. There is no getting away from the evidence; the mess, the smell and my guilty face are all she needs to know that it has happened again. She screws up her nose and says quite calmly “That’s it.”
I instantly know what she means. She isn’t going to put up with my ‘problem’ anymore and she already told me, after the first incident, that I should sleep with protection to save my embarrassment and her having to wash and clean up after me. She isn’t a terrible woman, but at 18 I should be able to control my body. My two younger brothers have no trouble getting up in the night and only my little baby sister Maria (a very late arrival to the family) needs help with her toilet requirements. Mum has already indicated that, to spare my blushes she isn’t going to tell anyone else about my problem but, and there are no buts to her argument, I will be wearing a nappy and plastic pants to bed for the foreseeable future. It’s what my baby sister needs and that is exactly how I will be treated. She did add that if I can go an entire week without wetting or messing then she’ll rethink my extra night time ‘equipment’. Meanwhile, she put in a call to her colleagues at the hospital where she worked (that was before the arrival of the baby) and got her plans underway.
As the eldest son I have my own room, which I have made clear to my younger brothers they do not enter (on pain of some unspoken evil) without my express permission but I did notice that they both caught a whiff of my bodily secretions and may already have guessed what had happened. I didn’t get chance to disagree with my mum especially when dad told me that I was lucky that was all that was required of me. His stern expression emphasising that arguing would not only be pointless but might make for a more severe punishment (although mum didn’t see it as a punishment, merely sensible protection). My dad wasn’t convinced that I couldn’t do anything to stop what was happening and thought I was just being an uppity, slovenly teenager. He had very little time for his eldest son, who in his opinion, seemed to have regressed to a little baby and he had enough responsibility with his (unexpected) youngest child to cope with.
The school year was almost over, exams taken and lessons more or less abandoned as we lazily went through the actions of those final days. I had no idea why my dream should cause me so much anxiety; I liked football but it wasn’t going to be my career. I’d breezed through the exams and assumed I’d done pretty well but, with the holidays looming, I still hadn’t found a part time job to see me through summer and my eventual results. What was more embarrassing was that my two younger brothers both had jobs. Gary, who is 12, has a paper round and Steve, who is 15, works with his mate on his father’s fruit and veg stall in the market over the weekend. Dad has refused to finance, what he sees as my lazy attitude to work, so I have no money. He thinks I could have found something, anything, if I’d tried but to him this is all part of my lethargic and disinterested way I live my life, always depending on others. This bout of bed wetting is just further proof of my ‘indolence’ of ‘can’t be bothered even getting up and going to the bathroom’ and his anger with me is on the cusp. I feel that if I argue, complain or in any way annoy him he’ll just explode and it will be worse for me.
I had planned a first holiday with my girlfriend Kate to start the week after the school year finished. We thought we’d take a break before she had to start work whilst waiting for our results and eventually university. We’d planned on going to the same one, although taking different courses, and hoped we’d be able to get accommodation together. I hoped many things for my future but one of the main things that I yearned for was to be able to get into Kate’s knickers once we were away from home and living together. We’d been doing everything except that last real bit of sex and the frustration was driving me mad but, she said, she wasn’t going to lose her virginity just because I wanted her to, she could be quite controlling in that way. Mind you, in my current ‘situation’ I wasn’t keen on sleeping with her just in case I made a mess – I’m sure that would be the kiss of death to any relationship. Now I couldn’t afford to go, even camping would have been too expensive and, my dad would have seen it as once again running away from my responsibilities.
It’s not that the family is poor. Dad has a well-paid job and up until the baby, mum was pretty well paid in her exec capacity at the hospital. However, Dad’s ethos has always been ‘you get nothing for nothing’ so, although I sought my escape in the prospect of university, I really was relying on my family to support me up until I went away. It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried to get work, well, I had tried but there were few opportunities around and I guess I was just too picky, thinking I was better than what was on offer. Mum had arranged for a part-time job at the hospital but I really didn’t want to be carting bodies around the wards with all those ill people – uuurggh! Mum was OK with my decision, saying it wasn’t a job for everybody but dad was furious and called me a little kid, scared of work and getting my hands dirty. The fact that I was now wetting the bed on a regular basis adding nothing to his low opinion of me… and I suppose I could see his point.
Mum had got her supplies from the hospital and I was greeted with them when I went to bed that night. Grown-up disposables and plastic pants were laid out and mum insisted that I wear them as she was damned if she was going to be mopping up after me anymore. I’m fairly easy going and don’t like conflict, that’s why I rarely argue with mum or dad, but I could see her argument on this and, I have to say, though reluctant to take this step I thought it was the easiest of solutions to my immediate problem. Mum said it was only until the problem disappeared, hopefully, as quickly as it had arrived. That night it felt strange wrapping myself in the thick disposable (mum had offered to help but I told her I could manage) and it took a few attempts at getting the tapes tight enough for the damn thing to stay up. Eventually it appeared to be in place and I looked in the mirror and burst into fits of laughter – I looked a right picture. I even did a little dance I thought I looked so stupid… the whole thing was hilarious. I slipped on the plastic pants, a sort of thick creamy colour, over it all and to hide the bulge pulled on my PJ pants.
The bulkiness was something I thought I’d never get used to. When I was standing up and dancing around, it had all seemed so funny but now, as I tried to get to sleep, it felt hot and uncomfortable. The slickness of the plastic pants meant that my hand kept stroking the front of my bulge but I could hardly feel my cock through the thickness, this I found quite disconcerting. The plastic had a texture of its own which, I surprisingly found stimulating and continued to play around with the silky mound until I fell asleep.
The dream was slightly different this time. Instead of being at Wembley I was on a camping holiday with Kate and it was she who was consoling as I wet myself. She pulled down my drenched pants and checked my soaked nappy and proceeded to start to change me in full view of the passing public (who on this occasion were a group of young hikers… all of whom were laughing at me). Kate was not putting up with my protests and insisted that I let her see to my needs or we were through, she wasn’t going to put up with a baby who didn’t want to be changed and that was that. I had no alternative but let her get on with it but the growing audience of a troop of scouts and an old folks walking group only added to my embarrassment. I started to cry.
To be continued