As a Pro-Domme, I am often asked if I do Adult Baby sessions. The short answer is “no”.
The long answer, however, is a little more complex. Firstly, I must explain that I don’t judge the ABDL fantasy as being abhorrent or unnatural in any way. After all, why wouldn’t a grown man or woman feel the desire to be nurtured and fussed over by a loving authority figure and relinquish the grown-up baggage, responsibility (and possibly the bladder or bowel control) that he or she has become hampered with since infancy? I understand. Yet I just won’t do it.
And this isn’t through any fault of the ABDL faction. Instead, it’s entirely the fault of my ex-boyfriend.
Now just to clarify, he wasn’t ever knowingly an Adult Baby. (He was actually a wannabe-Dominant-switch with a shoe fetish, abysmal communication skills, and a cock with a very short attention span.) Yet he needed a lot of looking after. To say that he was emotionally high-maintenance would be a gargantuan understatement. Giving him the constant reassurance he seemed to require was exhausting, and much like so many men, he wanted a whore in the bedroom and a facsimile of HIS OWN DOTING MOTHER everywhere else.
This I could almost live with, and I’d learned to turn a blind eye to his unnatural fixation with skateboards and stubborn refusal to read books. One evening though, he was downstairs, switching out the lights and locking up for the night. I went ahead to the bedroom. On the bed was a stack of freshly washed and folded underpants.
I stared, aghast at what I found myself confronted with.
Clearly, his washing machine had not done its job. The pair of white y-fronts at the top of the pile were decorated with an indelible shit mark along the arse-crack, a faded brown tea stain, perfectly symmetrical like some horrific Rorschach butterfly between ghostly buttocks.
I’d never really scrutinised male underwear before, but I knew that (for reasons I still can’t entirely fathom) men do occasionally get “skid marks”. Yet this wasn’t just a skid. It was full-scale car-crash of anal carnage. Nervously, I picked up the underpants and looked underneath to find… yet another pair, identically soiled, washed, and folded… And another… And another…
I can only equate the shock to that moment during “The Shining” when Shelley Duvall found Jack Nicholson’s stack of “all work, no play…” pages, yet at least even then, they weren’t printed in human excrement! There was nothing I could say, my mind full of the revelation that I was dating a man who had lived into his mid-thirties without even learning to wipe his bum properly. An axe-murderer in a deserted snowbound hotel, I could deal with; A grown man who appeared to be regressing to early childhood before my very eyes, I couldn’t. As luck would have it, he was cheating on me, so we separated soon after. I vowed never again to end up with another puerile man-boy with Oedipal neuroses and shitty underpants.
And this, my dear friends, is why I still involuntarily flinch a little when I see an Adult Baby or an inkblot test.
