"If ever I find you’re wet before bedtime, I’ll change your diapers, but not before I give you a good, thorough spanking first. Is that clear, Johnny?" This was a warning from my aunt Eva. I secretly called her Aunt Evil. My cousins wailed with scornful laughter.

"Yes ma’am," I squeaked, feeling my face go very red at the thought.

Now it was ten to nine in the evening, I was soaking wet and getting smelly, and it was sort of not my fault. Let me explain. I’m a just-turned-fifteen year old lifelong bedwetter who was put back in night-time diapers and plastic or rubber pants (Babykins!) by his fed-up mother, a no-nonsense mom who also acquired some bad advice, a wooden paddle and a proficiency in using it that leaves my bare butt stinging every Friday evening, when I regularly receive three hard strokes for each wet night the previous week, for a usual total of twenty-one. The drill is that at 7 p.m. I am to go up to my room (I share with my older brother Rob, and sometimes-- in fact more often than can be explained by coincidence-- he is there to witness my shame), timidly remove pants and underwear, lean over my crinkly plastic-sheeted mattress, and wait for my mother to appear, to take down the paddle from its hook on the wall, consult my tell-all wetting calendar (a large ‘W’ marks each wet night) and administer the appropriate degree of punishment that invariably reduces me to helpless tears of pain and humiliation in the first few strokes, no matter how much I try to be strong. Then unless she’s done it earlier, after the spanking I have to endure what seems like an endless wait in only a T-shirt while she prepares a thick diaper consisting of a Babykins prefold with several flannelette baby diapers folded lengthwise inside. I have to lie on the powdered diaper, have more powder applied to my front, then try somehow to bear it as the shameful, bulky cloth is pulled up between my spread legs to be pinned securely on either side. Then she scornfully puts plastic or rubber pants on me to complete my ridiculous reduction to helpless infancy. I cry but cooperate, because any hint of defiance can (and more than once has) resulted in another prolonged spanking. And non-spanking nights can and do turn into the opposite at the slightest lip or hint of defiance during the diapering process.

But now there was something new. For in spite of my mother’s willingness, and even enthusiasm to wield the paddle (and my brother’s-- he all too willingly fills in occasionally at my mom’s request), I had dangerously defied them both by quietly removing my diapers after bedtime- twice. The first time nothing happened. I woke up in the morning thrilled in a glorious, almost unheard of dry condition, rinsed my unworn diapers in the shower as usual, and deposited them in my diaper pail (on which my brother had written my name large in magic marker, maybe lest anyone might think it was his). And then the second night-- disaster! I awakened in the morning to a cold reminder that I had flooded my bed-- even the pillows were drenched and reeking, a smell which I think woke Rob, who lost no time in discovering my dry diaper and rubber pants by the side of my bed, or in a little later informing the ‘proper authority’ of my much warned against misdeed. Rob was always complaining about my supposed urine smell, but for once he really did have a point. I was told to expect a severe spanking later, a fate made all the worse by being forced to anticipate it all day, and by the fact that Rob was on hand that evening to observe smugly as I submitted meekly (but not so quietly) to I’m not sure how many strokes. I lost count. Afterwards Rob patted my freshly diapered behind. "Going to keep them on tonight?" he teased. I was still blubbering in burning shame.

I never would have pulled that stunt again, it wasn’t worth it. But typically, my mom took drastic steps to ensure I couldn’t. She had cautioned me of a further un-named consequence of my disobedience, but when nothing happened for a couple of days I more or less forgot about her warning. Then one Thursday evening after being diapered my mom told me not to put my pajamas on, but to wait. (Of course I was fully capable of diapering myself but had once stubbornly, foolishly refused, for which I had been denied the privilege for an indeterminate time. Now diapering was an excruciatingly humiliating nightly task performed by my mother or Rob, or even others, on rare occasions.) She left and came back with a package. "This is what you’ll be wearing over your diapers from now on," she said. "I ordered three of them, so you’ll always have a clean one." She unfolded the garment in front of me, and I almost fainted. It looked like a baby’s sleeper! It was a big baby’s sleeper, and I was the baby! "Let’s get it on you."

It was a babyish blue flannelette one-piece sleeper. It didn’t have feet, but in every other respect it resembled an item of clothing for an infant. And there was something else.

"Ha! You think I’m wearing that!" I said it with about as much authority as a boy wearing diapers can bluff.

"Oh, yes you are, and you know what happens if you make a fuss. By the way, did you notice the zipper’s in the back? And see that tab at the top? That cost a little extra. That’s so you can’t get at the zipper to take your sleeper off once it’s on. And that means no more removing your diapers without permission. Isn’t that great? Now let’s try it on and see how you look."

I already knew I would look ridiculous, and I did. Once on, my mom zipped me up and ‘locked’ the zipper. I was helpless.

"What if I need to go to the bathroom?"

"You can ask me or Rob, or anyone else who’s around, I guess." Great. Now I have to ask to go potty.

I was so surprised; the sleeper was obviously designed for a big kid wearing diapers, and I had no idea that such things were available. For babies, yes, but not for big kids like me. Rob laughed and laughed when he saw me. My mom explained that I wouldn’t be taking my diapers off anymore, and he kept laughing. "Hey," he said. "It’s a retard-retardant jumpsuit!"

I wouldn’t have put it so crudely, but unfortunately my brother had a point. I learned that my mom had ordered the sleepers from an Internet company called special-clothing.com, and that they were designed for amongst others, mentally challenged children as a way of preventing them from removing their diapers should they be so inclined. Another company sells a similar version for advanced Alzheimer’s patients.

So being put in my sleeper became a part of the hated nightly routine. I had previously thought that nothing could be worse than being forced to wear-- and be seen in-- diapers and plastic pants, but this was worse. The diapers were just as bulky, obvious, and noisy as under pajamas, but now I looked even more babyish (something I had not thought possible), and had even less control than before. In my shock that first evening, I didn’t anticipate another implication-- previously in the morning I would just go into the bathroom, remove my diapers and throw them in the shower to rinse along with me, but now I would have to submissively ask someone to undo my zipper. It was degrading to have to ask, and I would delay as long as possible with bad consequences to my soaking skin. And sometimes on a weekend if I slept in I would eventually be forced to go downstairs to seek help only to find we had visitors. Inevitably I would be asked by my mother or Rob if I was wet and I would have mumble an affirmative answer. ("Really, why do I even ask?") Then there might ensue a public discussion about my wetting, my diapers, even my spankings as I retreated unzipped and shamefaced up the stairs, where I would try to remain until I was sure the visitors had gone. Conversely, if I got up early I would have to wait wet in my infantile sleeper until someone was available (or willing, as my brother sometimes was not) to liberate me, usually wetter than when I woke up.

That was my problem now. I knew I was in big trouble when Aunt Evil got home.

My mother and brother were in Europe for six weeks in the summer, and I had been rudely (in my opinion) farmed out. My mom said the reason I wasn’t included in the trip was that I hadn’t met the deadline for permanent dryness she had set (I couldn’t argue with that), but I also thought they wanted a holiday from me, and I wasn’t heartbroken at the prospect of being away from them for awhile, especially Rob. But I was very anxious about what it would be like to stay with my nearby Aunt and fourteen-year old identical twin cousins Derek and Danny. Despite our geographic proximity we had never been close, and she struck me as a bit hard (she was my mom’s sister, after all), and had not intervened when the boys indiscreetly teased and ridiculed me about my wetting and diapers on the few occasions we had got together, knowledge of which they must have got from her.

If my mom is a very matter-of-fact, no-nonsense (some might even say overly strict) type of person, perhaps she got some of it from her impatient older sister, my Aunt Eva. I arrived with a small suitcase of ‘normal’ clothing, plus an identical one that was (as Rob was quick to point out) a de-facto diaper bag. It contained enough diapers to last me a week between launderings, plus plastic pants, rubber pants, (and my mom had even thoughtfully included snap-on vinyl pants in case Auntie might find them more convenient), my despised sleepers, diaper pins, baby powder, diaper-rash ointment, a package of Huggies baby wipes, medical gloves, my plastic sheet, my calendar on which to record my nightly failures, and the dreaded paddle. Plus I had been sent with my awful personalized diaper pail. Having been ordered to unpack, all these things were now open to view by my aunt and the twins. I was horribly embarrassed, but dared not fail to comply. My aunt had earlier set the tone for the visit. "Have you been spanked today?" Derek and Danny giggled. Aunt Evil didn’t regularly spank her own darlings, but was fully aware and in agreement with my form of punishment.

"I don’t get spanked every day," I managed to blurt, to more laughter.

"That’s not what I asked, Johnny. Have you been spanked yet today?"

"No."

"Well let’s try and keep it that way. If you give me the slightest reason, I’ll warm your backside. Understand? I have no patience with all of this nonsense. A fifteen year-old in diapers indeed! The boys stopped wetting when they were about three. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?"

"I guess so."

Derek grabbed the paddle and said to Danny, "Bend over, baby!"

So this was the way it was going to be.

It might seem trivial, but I had argued about the inclusion of the rubber gloves. Since I looked after my wet diapers in the mornings, their presence suggested that I might have to be changed sometime between being diapered in the evening and bedtime. I resented this, but my mom pointed out unhelpfully that I might need diaper-rash ointment applied, and besides, I had indeed wet my diapers on several occasions before bed. Of course I had to admit she was right. The worst instance was on the very first night of the new approach to my chronic wetting. After my very first wildly debasing paddling as an adolescent, to my utter horror and amazement, then I really was put into thick diapers covered by a pair of vinyl snap-on pants. I was in shock! And to further bring home to me my new lowly status as a diapered bedwetter, for a couple of evenings I had to wander the house that way (a tee-shirt was reluctantly allowed), dazed and amazed at the bulkiness, the noisy pants, the unbelievable shame of it all. Of course I was teased by my brother, and when someone I looked up to, my brother’s best friend Brad dropped in to see me that way, I wet without immediately knowing it, was found out, and paid the price-- another bare-bottomed spanking and a fresh diapering in front of the jeering pair of them. Other accidents have also happened, but not always through my own fault.

When it comes to my wetting, my mom, whether as part of a plan or just because of her intolerant nature, makes no concession whatever to my dignity, privacy, or feelings. She has even said ‘If you wet, here is what you get.’ So my diapers, pants and accessories are in plain view in the room I share with my brother, along with my calendar and paddle. She has never asked him or any friends or relatives present to leave before diapering me (as you would not if it were a baby being attended to), even when I was to be spanked first. It’s as if these are the logical, inevitable, practical consequences of my infantile behavior, and she doesn’t think twice about it. Recently, not wanting to miss any action during an early hockey game, she sent me to my room to get diapers, pants, pins, powder, and my sleeper, and proceeded to diaper and dress me on the couch after asking three of my brother’s friends to make room temporarily. They missed a Canucks’ goal because they all stood watching my involuntary transformation from teenage kid to infant. Then remembering too late what day it was, she declared "Oh, well, he can have his spanking tomorrow with a few extra for not reminding me in time." I made a noisy escape with a still burning face as soon as possible. I don’t know if my mom instructed Aunt Eva or whether it comes naturally, but she has exactly the same attitude: ‘You want to wet—this is what you get’. As if wanting had anything to do with it.

My aunt took the plastic sheet and began placing it on the bare mattress of the spare bed in the twins’ room. There were sheets and a blanket on a nearby chair, but she didn’t make the bed, and I felt awkward to have my plastic sheet left exposed, but I had other problems too. The twins’ stuff had been rearranged in their dressers to free up two drawers for me. Under the watchful eyes of everyone, into these drawers I managed to squeeze my ‘normal’ clothing, my waterproof pants, the rubber gloves, and my sleepers. There was absolutely no room for diapers, powder, wipes, etc. I was panicking, and seeing my problem, Auntie said "You can stack your diapers and the rest on top of the dresser." This was the first time she had said the word, and it shook me. ‘Your diapers!’ ‘Johnny’s diapers!’ And in front of the boys.

So that’s what I did. It’s caused me no end of horror that my diapers, waterproof pants, and accessories are kept in plain view in my room at home. I quake in anticipation of my brother’s friends seeing my infantile stuff even already knowing I’m a diapered bedwetter, and it was the same when we accepted a Japanese exchange student into our home, and he sometimes had friends over. (But at least Hiro-- whose famous Japanese reserve didn’t prevent him from calling me ‘omutsu-boy’--never saw me in my idiotic straitjacket sleeper.) But that was home. Now my borrowed dresser-top supported a large pile of folded youth and baby diapers, diaper pins, a container of baby powder, and the wipes. Who knew who would see them over six weeks? Things felt really out of control. I was at the mercy of hostile semi-strangers.

"There’s a nail on the wall there for your calendar and your paddle."

This generated interest, and Danny picked up the well-marked calendar. "W, W, W, W...’W’ is for wet?"

"No, I think it’s for Wuss," Derek offered.

"Man, he never has a dry night. Mom, look. Johnny’s been a wuss every night since January 1, 2000. And who knows before that? He’s going to stink up our whole room."

"Hopefully his diapers and pants will prevent that."

That word again.

"I sure hope so," said Derek. "Or you can always put him in the garage to sleep."

Thoroughly crushed, I hung the calendar, then the paddle from the nail. A double advertisement of my disgrace.

All that afternoon I dreaded what the evening would bring. I’m the sort of person who is just totally shy about being seen naked. I just hate it. For example, I wear my P.E. shorts under my clothing on gym days at school, and never ever shower afterward. And it’s not just to avoid revealing the tell-tale signs of my diapers. I’m just intensely shy about being seen naked. So the time worrying about the approaching hour when Aunt Eva would diaper me were like torture. How could I handle it? How would my cousins react when they saw me later? That afternoon they had made it clear what they thought of my wetting, and adopted a sneeringly superior attitude that would last the whole six weeks. They spared no opportunity to demean and belittle me, and even though I was somewhat used to it from my brother and his friends, the twins are technically a year younger than me (although really only a few months), and that made it harder to take. Plus the fact that there’s really no dignifying comeback possible from wearing demeaning diapers. You just have to take it.

"I can’t wait to see you in your diapers, baby," said Derek.

"Hey do you think he sleeps with a pacifier?" Danny asked.

"I didn’t see any, but if he has one I don’t think it’s for going to raves..."

"Hey Johnny, if you have real bad diaper rash, do you still get the paddle?" Derek again. I blushed, but didn’t answer.

"No, I really want to know. Do you still get spanked if you have diaper rash? Yes or no? It’s for your own good. Our mom will need to know."

"I guess so."

They laughed. "Hey, let’s call Alan and invite him over tonight," Danny said. "Tell him to come around eight."

Derek made the call on a cell phone. I could either run away or listen. I cringed and listened.

"Hi Alan. Derek. Doin’ anything this evening? Wanna come over? Cool. You know our cousin Johnny? Anyway he’s staying with us. But he’s a bedwetter, and, like he wears diapers for it. Yeah! Fifteen! I know, I can’t believe it. He wears cloth diapers and, like, rubber pants. He pisses ‘em every night. Anyway, mom’s going to diaper him. Come over around eight and you can see him. Ok? See you then..." He hung up.

"Hey, we could sell tickets!" Danny joked.

Great. something else to look forward to.

My anxiety increased as the afternoon passed, and by suppertime I didn’t have much interest in eating. Although both thin and light, my cousins seemed to have a healthy appetite, and each ate three hot-dogs. I sipped ginger ale. An air of anticipation hung in the room.

"Is he allowed to drink pop?" Derek asked.

"Good point. Stick to water, but nothing after suppertime," my aunt ordered. My throat was dry, and I was shaky.

Finally, at about five minutes to seven, Aunt Eva looked at her watch, and the dreaded moment came.

"Ok Johnny, I want you to go upstairs, prepare a diaper like your mom said, and be ready for me." This had been agreed on to spare her the chore of putting together a diaper. By ‘get ready’ she meant get undressed. I went slowly, the twins watching, superior and complacent.

With trembling fingers I took a Babykins, laid it on my plastic sheet (I had forgotten; it was a shock to see it bare like that) and folded four baby diapers and laid them lengthwise along the already thick center of the youth diaper. Then I laid two diapers flat over the top. I folded the sides of the main diaper in toward the center. Ready. I felt a feeling of lightheaded unreality as I realized it was time to take my pants off, that I had to take my pants off. Here I was getting myself ready to be diapered like a baby! By someone who was practically a stranger! Man! With a feeling of dread I managed to remove my jeans, and stopped there. I needed time to think, to prepare myself, to swallow my pride. I don’t know how much I took. But here was Aunt Eva already, and she was not alone! My heart pounded. I had a sickening sense of deja-vu and foreboding at the same time.

"I told you to be ready," my aunt said.

"What are they doing here?"

"Man, I never saw such a big diaper!" said Derek.

"Man, I never saw such a big baby!" said Danny, and they rewarded their common wit with a high-five.

"I want them to know how in case one of them has to diaper you. Quite often I’m out in the evening." This was too much.

"I don’t want them here."

"I’m sorry, but you have absolutely no choice in the matter. It’s not to embarrass you. At some point I will most likely need them to put you into diapers." The boys looked on in amazed anticipation. She had picked up diaper pins and powder. I felt like I was in a bad dream. This could not be happening. She sprinkled powder on the cloth. "Now take your underwear off, please, and lie down on your back on your diaper." But I couldn’t. Maybe if she hadn’t said ‘your diaper’; or maybe if it had been just her, bad as that would have been; but to be ordered to strip off my BVD’s in front of my younger cousins under such humiliating circumstances, to have to reveal my nakedness, my minor diaper rash, my weakness, was too much. I froze. Not on purpose.

"Are you going to take your underwear off?" I didn’t answer. Nothing came. I was there, but I wasn’t.

"Very well! Derek, get me his paddle. His mother said not to stand for any nonsense, and oh, I won’t." My cousin obliged. I felt my underpants being pulled down in a dream. They dropped to the floor between my legs. I was aware of being pushed downward until I was on my knees by the side of the bed about a foot away from it. My torso was pushed downward, so that my face was almost touching the plastic sheet, my arms extended in front of me. I thought I detected a faint smell of urine. Was my brother right after all? Then I felt the first solid bite of the paddle. My aunt was using a long downward trajectory and it hurt from the very first stroke. The shock of it brought me back. The room was mostly silent except for the sound of the paddle against my butt. Again and again and again it came, in what would prove to be the worst spanking of my life. By now I was bawling, and still the paddle came, again and again and again. I thought she would never stop. The thought of the boys witnessing my degradation only made it worse, as did the knowledge that they would soon also see me diapered. More to come! Finally my Aunt said, "There. Do you think this will remind you to do as you’re told in future?" She was breathing fast, and still spanking me just as hard.

"Yes."

"And by the way, that goes for the boys too. If they tell you to do something, just do it. And if they do have to diaper you, you don’t make a fuss. Right?" Still spanking.

"Ok." Although I wasn’t too sure about that. She gave me three more swats. I stayed kneeling, my torso on the plastic, sobbing. Auntie seemed to be catching her breath.

"Mom, are we allowed to spank him too? I mean if there’s a reason?" asked Derek.

"Yes, if there’s good cause. But you have to be reasonable." This was more bad news.

She stood me up and directed me to lie on the waiting diaper. There was noise as my butt indented the diaper and the plastic sheet under it. I was just as self-conscious as the first time this had ever been done to me. I could painfully feel Derek and Danny staring at me, but I was helpless, and didn’t dare to risk another spanking by reacting. I gazed at the ceiling through teary eyes, but was aware of every awful detail of what was going on.

"Ok boys. See, there’s nothing to it. You put him on the center of the diaper, use a little baby powder, then bring the diaper up between his legs, like so, then pin it on either side, good and tight. There. Danny, hand me some diaper pants, please, top drawer."

He gave her a pair of my vinyl snap-on pants. Without a hint of defiance, I lifted my painful diapered butt from the slippery sheet, and she slid them under me, adjusted them, then snapped them up, five stainless steel snaps per side. God, help me. She stood me up, and my head hung in abject shame as the boys got their first good look at me in my diapers. Of course all waterproof pants are by definition babyish, but I find snap-on pants especially so, as they’re designed for the convenience of the parent or caregiver, not the helpless ‘baby’. And helpless is how I felt as Derek and Danny stared at me in my chastened and infantile condition, my vinyl pants instantly removable by anyone for a quick diaper change. They were strangely silent, not out of sympathy or respect for my feelings; they were just overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the situation, as was I. And still throbbing in pain from a horrendous spanking, I could not even think that my silly, immature cousins had just been given permission to do the same. And the thought of actually being diapered by one of them was beyond my ability to deal with right then. But I should have got myself ready.

I still had a tee-shirt on, and now my Aunt told me to lift one foot, then the other, and I was put into my ‘retard jammies’, zipped up and ‘locked’, and she showed the boys how to do it so I can’t get out.

"Now remember. If you have to use the bathroom before bedtime, ask one of us. If I catch you in wet diapers, guess what happens. Guess!."

"I get a spanking."

"Surprise, surprise."

The paddle went back on the wall, I hoped for a long time.

Auntie wouldn’t allow me to hide in my room as I would have liked, and we all went downstairs. The boys were very amused by my general appearance, my bulkiness, the noise of the pants when I walked or moved, my baby powder smell, I guess the abashed look on my face.

"Got a sore bum?" Derek asked and he patted my behind, making my pants crinkle. I didn’t think I could suffer much more of this, but then remembered their friend was coming over.

Once I wet my pants in the back seat of the car. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe I fell asleep for only a few moments, in any case I was startled to hear my brother announce "Mom, Johnny just wet his pants." I looked down in disbelief to see that the front of my jeans was quite wet, and the area was growing. I felt wet under me too, and knew the back seat under me must be wet also. I wondered if Rob had poured water on me in a type of sick joke of which he would certainly be capable, but I smelled strongly of urine. The unthinkable had happened. In keeping with her no-nonsense policy, mom did not turn around and drive home, but stopped at a large pharmacy that was nearby. I could tell she was furious, but she didn’t say much other than to order me to remove my wet pants and underwear. "When you’re finished, you can put your shoes back on. And stay where it’s wet, don’t make the seat any worse." I knew better than to argue, and slowly began to do as she said as she disappeared into the store.

"Uh-oh...," my brother said. "This doesn’t look too good for you..." I was glad the side windows in the mini-van are somewhat tinted, but now Rob began opening them electronically from the driver’s seat to let air circulate, and I was forced to undress more or less in public in broad daylight. I balled up my underwear in my jeans and set the bundle on my lap for some privacy as I struggled back into my shoes not knowing why I had been told to do this. My mom soon returned with fabric cleaner, paper towel, garbage bags, the Huggies wipes I still have, and two sample Attends diapers, size small, although I didn’t know it until my brother read one of the packages out loud. I felt my mouth drop open. She opened her door and put the things on the seat. Removing a garbage bag, she opened my door and held it open for me to deposit my wet things. Except for my shirt and shoes, this left me naked with the door open. She took another garbage bag and, motioning me to rise, placed it under me on the seat and tucked it into the seam at the back. Then she cleaned me none too gently with a baby wipe. By now people were curiously looking, including some teens. Rob was slumping down in his seat a little, his baseball cap pulled down. Mom got an Attends ready, and told me to lift my butt. My legs were still inside the car, and she swung me around so that they dangled out and proceeded to diaper me that way. I was in a fog, but was aware of being watched, of laughter, and of hearing comments: ‘She’s diapering the guy!’ ‘The kid wears friggin’ Pampers!’ ‘Mikey, look at the big baby!’ As I was already pointed that way she pulled me roughly out of the van by the arm and told me to go around the other side while she began cleaning the seat. I had to walk around the back of the van in full view of the taunting ‘public’, in my unfamiliar wildly crinkly disposable diaper, and sit back inside trying to sink into my seat until she was ready to continue.

We were on our way to her cousin Joan’s to briefly wish her happy birthday, and as we drove I felt that familiar hollow-stomached, almost sweet, sickening anticipation of impending deep mortification that being seen in diapers inevitably brings. I knew I would have to leave the car and walk up the path into their house as I was, in shirt, diaper, shoes and socks. I pre-lived the shock and surprise, the looks, the whispers, the teasing on the part of the kids, the questions, the explanations, the shaking heads, the not knowing where to look or stand or sit as I waited to get my pants back from their washer and dryer, the fact that I would still be made to wear my noisy, deserved diaper under my pants until we got home and I got changed into cloth and rubber pants for bed, and that they would all know all about it, forever.

That’s exactly how I felt now as I waited for this Alan kid to arrive- and in my experience the anticipation is never the worst part, there is always some part of the awful reality, when it finally happens, that you could not possibly have imagined. And then he was there. "Hey, man, I finished the English paper for Miss Lennon. It’s only around 350 words, but it’s all she’s gettin’." As he spoke he was eyeing me, sizing me up, or down. I was avoiding eye contact, looking at the floor. "So what’s with diaperboy?" Already no respect. I wet my diapers quite badly.

"That’s Johnny, our cousin," Derek said.

"He has EN-U-RE-SIS," added Danny. "That means he goes pee-pee in the night, ALLL over himself. That’s why widdle Johnny have to wear diapers and wubber pants, wight, Johnny?"

"Man, he looks like a baby. Do you guys have to change his diapers?" I was burning up.

"Not yet. But mom said we might have to sometimes," said Derek.

"But we’re allowed to punish him too," added Danny. "If he deserves it. You should have seen earlier. Mom spanked him, and he was blubbering before she even got started. Bare ass, man. He has a paddle. C’mon, I’ll show you." I was scared, had had enough, and began to head upstairs just as Alan was invited up, and now I was stuck to go up directly in front of him, acutely aware of my vinyl pants noise, my absurd padded bottom just inches from his face.

"Jeez, what a racket!" Alan said, at the top. "I guess at least he can never sneak up on you. By the way, do I smell something?" he hadn’t said a single word directly to me. This was fairly typical in my experience. Look like a baby, get treated like a baby.

For awhile I had been working on screwing up my courage to ask either twin to unzip me to let me go to the bathroom. It had been my plan to ask Aunt Eva to do it. She had left for a real-estate seminar (she was an agent) shortly after dealing with me, and I thought I could easily hold out until nine o’clock or so, when she was expected back. But my urgency seemed to grow with my anxiety, and I knew I would have to forget my pride and ask a cousin and hope they would not catch on immediately (as my brother had) that it can be fun to just say no. (‘You have to learn to hold it, Johnny. I’m just trying to help!’)

I tried and tried to ask, and even mumbled an ‘Um...’ once or twice, but couldn’t follow through. When Alan showed up I knew that was it, and couldn’t hold on anymore. My diaper wasn’t about to leak, but was quite wet. Now my only hope was that no one would catch on. I had ‘got away’ with it a couple of times at home, if that’s the right way of putting it. ‘Getting away with it’ means having to stay in wet diapers for maybe up to twelve or more hours, having them possibly leak during the night thus running the risk of causing your mother to use even more on you, having your urine turn into skin-burning, stinking ammonia, and so on. But that’s what I was hoping for. Tired Aunt Eva might not bother to check, or I could go to bed before she got back, and the twins had no experience in such matters and probably wouldn’t even notice if I kept out of their way.

Alan had seen my shameful plastic sheet, of course, but also was shown my paddle, calendar (more astute than the twins, he spotted two fluky dry nights- January 6, and April 29, 2000. There was one more, but he missed it), my diapers and accessories, and Derek obligingly opened the top dresser drawer to give him a peek at my assorted waterproof pants. I started to sneak away, but my pants betrayed me. Alan was watching me with a look of derision.

"Man, I don’t know how anyone could be like that. So weak. So un-cool, man. So freakin’ babyish. By the way, his diaper’s pissed, you know. I heard him do it downstairs. Just like my baby brother. You can hear it. And now I can smell it. No mistake. You’ll get used to the signs." He laughed.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Derek asked. There was no point in denying anything. I pointed weakly toward the covered zipper on my back. "Um, I was too shy, I thought I could hold it..." Another first. They hadn’t seen me in wet diapers before.

"Yeah, well you’ll be holding your ass when mom gets home."

A phone rang, and Derek reached for his cell. It was obvious he was talking to his mother, and any faint hope I might have had soon disappeared when he mentioned my name. He talked at some length, then handed me the phone. I knew something bad was going to happen.

"Hello?"

"I just can’t believe you’ve done that. I just can’t believe it!"

"I’m sorry. It was an accident. It won’t..."

"Is this the way it’s going to be? Because we all have better things to do than change your ridiculous diapers, young man. It’s too much!"

"Well, I..."

"I’m going to be late. The boys are going to deal with you, then you’re going to bed. If I hear from them that you’ve been the slightest bit uncooperative, the slightest bit mind you, I’m going to get you up when I get home, and you’ll be one very sorry boy." She hung up.

"What did she say?" Danny wanted to know.

"Um, to cooperate."

"Or else?"

"Spanking, I guess." Small voice. It was all happening again. So soon!

"Jeez, that would make three in one day. Would that be a record for you, Johnny?" Three! That meant...

"Who’s going to do it?" Danny asked. "I don’t feel like touching his pissy diapers." Girls seem have no problem with the D word, maybe because of playing with dolls and playing house. Boys always say it funny, as if they’re too embarrassed, something catches in the throat. Danny included. Me included.

"Mom said to use gloves, and use a Huggies wipe on him. Whoever does it does the whole thing, the diapers and the spanking. She said we’ll probably be doing it a lot, so we might as well get used to it. I’ll go first. And mom says to make it a spanking, not a beating. Johnny, she said as soon as you make up a diaper for yourself, we’ll get started. Let’s go." No mercy.

It took less than a minute to assemble the diaper, even in my unsteady state, as they watched and made ridiculing remarks. My butt was still sore from the first bout with the paddle, and I knew from experience that a second one so soon does not just bring back the pain, but increases it many-fold. I was afraid of the usual things, but also of maybe having to beg Derek to stop spanking me. I hated that they were going to see me in diapers, naked, spanked, and back in diapers, that there was nothing I could do about it, and that they’d know about it forever, and that nothing could ever undo that fact.

My diaper ready on the plastic sheet, Derek undid the tab on my sleeper, pulled the zip down, pulled the sleeper down, and helped me out of it, throwing it near the head of my bed. My knees buckled a little, and I held my arms together to minimize exposure.

"Whoa!" Alan said. I guess he had never seen a big kid in diapers either. Danny went to my drawer and found a pair of hospital gloves, put them on, wiggling his fingers. "Danny, get his diaper pail." He slid my waiting diaper toward my jammies, and told me to lie across the bed. I did, my feet touching the floor. The plastic sheet felt cool on my back in the gap between my tee-shirt and the waistband of my vinyl pants. It was hard to keep my hands from reaching to stop him as he slowly unsnapped my pants and brought the front down, exposing my wet diapers and releasing a urine smell. "Cripes!" he said. My mouth was working, I was trying not to cry, I was trying to stand it. His gloved hands fumbled, but undid one then the other diaper pin, and he placed them near my waiting diaper. Now he pulled the front of the wet diaper so that the whole thing slid thickly and unwillingly between my legs until it was free. He held it gingerly and let it drop into the pail. I lay semi-naked, in an evil spell, as Derek went to get a wipe. I heard it come out of the container. It was cold on me. He used it sparingly on my front and between my legs, as if had to get this part over as quickly as possible, to my relief. "Turn over."

He moved the vinyl pants out of the way, and I lay directly on the plastic sheet as he cleaned my bum, taking a little more time. Now he pulled me back by the shoulder so that I ended up kneeling in the same position as just a few hours earlier. He slid the diaper back to where it would be ready for me. My arms in front of me, he pushed me down as his mother had so that my face was almost touching the diaper (talk about rubbing my nose in it), causing my still damp Huggie-wiped butt to tauten. There was a pause as I think he was handed the paddle, and I sobbed a second before the first blow landed.

Still in his gloves, Derek set me on the diaper, powdered me, pulled it up between my legs, and pinned it on before snapping me into the same vinyl pants. "There he is," said Alan, as I stood before them, "dry and chastised." I was put back in my sleeper, then told to make my bed and get the hell into it.

"Man, I can see it. You guys are going to have to waste your whole freakin’ summer babysitting this guy," Alan said as I fought my urge to hide my face anywhere and submissively did as I was told, remembering what Aunt Eva had warned about cooperation.

I woke up sometime later as Derek and Danny were undressing for bed. I watched quietly. Alan was still with them, and had unrolled a sleeping bag on the floor. "Hey," Derek joked, "you could kick Johnny out and have his bed..."

"No thanks. This boy don’t sleep on no plastic sheet."

I thought how nice it would be to strip down to your cool Calvin Klein boxers or whatever, jump into a bed with a quiet, unprotected mattress while your friends did the same, and drift off to sleep without a care in the world. I noticed the clock by Danny’s bedside. 12:03 A.M. My second day at Aunt Evil’s had begun. My butt hurt, and I was wet.

"Is baby Johnny all wet?" I didn’t know if it was Derek or Danny asking. They sound the same, and I wasn’t looking. It was Friday morning. I climbed quietly (as quietly as possible under the circumstances) out of bed and started to pull the covers up over my dry sheets (wet as I might be inside, it still gave me pleasure, almost a sense of accomplishment to get up to a dry bed). I had hoped to wake up early and escape the room before the boys noticed, but I must’ve slept longer than I planned, for all three were wide awake and watching me.

"Hey Johnny, did you sleep like a baby?"

"Can’t you tell by the smell?" Alan asked. In fact I was aware of quite a strong odor, caused by having wet so early the night before. Waterproof pants will only control it to an extent. I was also itchy and uncomfortable, and anxious to get out of the damn diapers and into the shower. So anxious in fact, that now having been ‘caught’, I was willing to ask to be released from my sleeper and risk the embarrassment of being turned down. "Danny, could you...?"

"Better fill in your calendar, in case baby happens to forget later. Make that a great big ‘W’ for Wet Wuss." The black marker my brother had used on my diaper pail was actually for the purpose of recording my wet nights on the despised calendar, from which it normally hung on a string. Now I had to look around for it, finally spotting it on Derek’s desk. His clock showed ten to eight. I was acutely aware of the revealing sound being made by my vinyl pants as I approached, retrieved the marker, and walked a bit stiff-legged (it did no good) to the this public chronology of my wetting shame. I winced as I produced the telltale four squeaks of yet another ‘W’, this latest under Friday, June 29. An all too rare ‘D’ sounds different and almost refreshing, which, if I may say, squeaks for itself. And here was a reminder, not that one was needed, that this was the beginning of the weekend, and furthermore that every date between this one and the same day last week was marked the same way. W, W, W... And here at nose level was the paddle (I thought it was starting to look a little worn) that on Friday evenings translated such an innocuous-looking letter of the alphabet into three painful naked-butt strokes for each time it appeared. I wondered how many times bare wood had met bare backside in the sadistic career of the spanking implement—not only mine, but that of Russ, my now maddeningly dry and condescending paddling predecessor whose very dryness was an argument for its continued use on me, and whose busybody mom, along with the paddle, had generously donated his diapers, plastic pants, and even his diaper pail to my mother for my own baby collection after a suitable interval to ensure that Russell’s ‘big-boy’ status seemed permanent. It was an ordinary white baby’s diaper pail with a lid, and now it had my name on it.

"Danny, could you undo my zip?"

"Say pweeze."

"Derek?"

"A good wittle boy always wemembers to say pweeze, and anks."

"Ok, please."

"Sorry, we’re just tooo tired!" Danny said, and fell back pretending to snore. Alan began singing in a sleepy voice: "You can tell by the smell that he’s wet as holy hell, and the urine keeps flow-ing on John...." They all thought this was very funny. I crept to outside my aunt’s closed bedroom door and listened, but I could tell she was still asleep, and I didn’t dare wake her. Alan was still singing, to the continued laughter of my cousins. "Over hill, over dale, here he comes with diaper pail, and the urine keeps flowing on John..." What talent! What a jerk! I went downstairs and poured myself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and turned on the TV. A bunch of cute babies were ‘singing’ opera in a Huggies commercial. I instinctively changed the channel. Whenever others were in the room, excruciating diaper commercials never failed to spark an embarrassing conversation about my own babyish need for them. Now I sat in my soggy state, ate my cereal, watched Roadrunner cartoons, and felt sorry for myself. I wondered what my mother and Rob were doing in Europe just then. Probably having a great time. I almost hoped Rob wouldn’t slip and fall off the leaning tower of Pisa. Or maybe get pushed.

The doorbell rang. I froze. Who the heck could that be? Maybe they’d just go away. I waited. It rang again. "Answer the darn door!" It was Derek, in his underwear at the top of the stairs. "It’s probably Alan’s little brother Dustin." I guessed it was, when I finally let him in. He seemed to be about eleven years old, and looked somewhat like his older brother.

"I’m Dustin Johnson. Is my brother Alan here?" Already he was staring hard at me, at my sleeper, at the obvious bulge instead of where underwear or nothing should be. My vinyl pants made betraying noises as I moved from the door. "Upstairs," I said. I knew he knew, but I hoped. he wouldn’t ask.

"How come you’re wearing diapers? You even smell of pee." He answered his own question, but I couldn’t speak. This was always the worst moment--to be confronted without tact, totally defenseless in your diapers, by an astonished kid much younger than yourself. Your roles are instantly reversed, with you on the bottom. For a confused second I thought of asking him to undo my zipper. I probably wet a little.

"Dustin, meet my cousin Johnny. Johnny’s in diapers ‘cause he’s a big wet baby bedwetter. Come on up." Dustin fixed me with a look of mocking disbelief, shook his head, and started upstairs. I didn’t even have time to sink into the floor and the doorbell rang again. With shaky legs and a sense of resignation I went to the door and opened it.

"Oh. You must be Johnny. You’re the nephew still in diapers. Your Aunt told me all about you." All. I bet. She was about my Aunt’s age, and was dressed in shorts, a golf shirt, and wore a visor. She had a kid with her. He looked to be about thirteen or fourteen. He was looking at me in that disbelieving way just as Dustin had. "I’m Jane, and this is my son Martin. Is your aunt Eva around? We’re playing golf this morning. Maybe you could you call her, please?" She spoke in a slightly condescending way, as if I might be too dumb to understand. Retarded, maybe.

"I’ll get her. Um, make yourselves at home." They had to hear the rustling of my pants as I made my way to the stairs and up, but then Aunt Eva had told her ‘all about’ me. Still, I was mortified, and I thought I could feel their eyes on my bulky rear as I went upstairs, and I felt myself get a little wetter inside as I heard Jane say "That’s what can happen to some chronic bedwetters." It sure could!

Aunt Eva was already up. She graciously greeted her visitors, apologized for running late, and began eating a cup of yogurt for breakfast. It turned out that because of a large annual golf tournament beginning later in the morning, the usual roster of country club caddies would be unavailable, and so Martin had been recruited to caddy for his mom. After being turned down by my cousins and even Alan and Dustin, Aunt Eva settled on me. "Well I haven’t even had a shower yet," I protested. But I wondered if I’d be better off with her than being at the mercy of the tormenting bullies upstairs for possibly several hours.

"Well, there isn’t time. One of the boys is in the bathroom, so you can just use a Huggies wipe. Here. Let me undo your sleeper. See this Jane? It’s what I told you about. It’s designed to prevent Johnny from removing his diapers, which he’s been known to do, apparently. Whew! Well I see we’ll be adding yet another three strokes to the total this evening, young man." Had Martin caught on to what she meant? I couldn’t look.

I had hoped the bathroom was free by now, but someone was still in there. I reluctantly went into the bedroom, and once there I hesitated as long as I could, hoping that Derek, Alan and Dustin would leave, as they seemed tantalizingly on the verge of doing any moment. But then the kid got interested in my private business.

"Does the guy wet himself every night?" he asked. "Even my little brother is mostly dry, and he’s only three." He was staring at my pile of neatly stacked white diapers. For some reason it added to my discomfort that they looked so real, so used, so necessary along with my spare diaper pins, powder and other things, the wildly embarrassing nuts and bolts of my extended babyhood.

"Yeah. Pretty well. Look for yourself. It’s marked on the calendar." He checked, and of course he saw the paddle also.

"Man, oh man that’s bad! Don’t tell me he even gets spanked for it?"

"Yep. Tonight as a matter of fact. Stick around, it’s really funny! Wahhh!"

My Aunt called from downstairs, telling me to hurry up.

I slipped my shoulders and arms out of the sleeper, which now dropped down to my waist in front. I took a deep breath and let it fall down to the floor, and then stepped out of it one leg at a time. It was a bad moment as I felt my face and the back of my neck go crimson as I stood with my back to the boys in nothing but my vinyl pants, diapers, and my tee-shirt, totally exposed. There was hushed silence as I unsnapped the pants, ten loud pops in all. I let them fall on top of the sleeper, then undid the blue diaper pins, removed them, and held the front of the wet diaper as the back fell from between my legs.

"Man, he looks like he’s even got diaper rash!"

"Of course."

Now I had to face them semi-naked as I went to my diaper pail, removed the lid and deposited the soaked diaper. The pail’s contents gave off a fairly strong odor which caused Alan and Dustin to put on an exaggerated display of fanning the air with their hands and pretending asphyxiation. "Whoa! Put the lid on!" Trying not to cry, I took a Huggies wipe from the container and gave myself a very quick cleaning, anxious as I was to get into underwear and jeans. Then I grabbed a shirt and ran downstairs, leaving the boys to their taunting laughter, and my sleeper, pants, and wipe where they lay.

"Is he waterproof?" Jane wanted to know.

"Only at night," my Aunt replied. "So far, that is..." I couldn’t look at Martin.

On the way to the golf course I became aware of a faint sour urine smell, and hoped no one would notice. We’d soon be outside in the breeze, after all. I should’ve been a little more thorough with the Huggies wipe, but then who could blame me for wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible and get the heck out of there? I studiously watched the scenery go by. I hadn’t said a single word to Martin. What do you say to a kid you’ve never met before who’s just seen you in wet and smelly diapers? How do you recover from that? He wasn’t killing himself to make conversation either, and that was fine with me. At least no talk meant no teasing.

"Did somebody wet his pants back there?" Aunt Evil neglected her already bad driving to turn and look pointedly at me. I squirmed in my seat, and I thought Martin did also. "No..." we both said. Like my mom, Aunt Eva is blessed with an olfactory finesse that could probably make her rich in the perfume industry. You can almost never fool either of them when it comes to sniffing out embarrassing secrets. Not that it isn’t worth trying.

"I find with enuretics you can never quite get rid of the smell of urine," Auntie said. "I think being wet so much of the time, it must permeate the skin, and is always present, however faintly. I can always smell a bedwetter." I was intensely interested in the weathered side of a barn.

"I agree," said Jane. "Only now we’ve got it double." What was this?

"Mom!" Now it was Martin’s turn to cringe.

"Three or four times a week, since he was nine."

"Mom!!"

"We don’t have to have secrets here, Martin. You just saw Johnny in his diapers, for goodness sake. Maybe Mrs. Wilson can help." Now poor Martin was busy scrutinizing the scenery. Interesting cow...

"Do you use diapers on him?" He let out a low groan. If the car seat had been a mineshaft, Martin would’ve been gone. Me too.

"No, he absolutely refuses, with the result that his room usually smells like a public washroom. In fact the whole apartment does. I’ve had to fight him to even have a plastic sheet on his mattress, and he’ll only have it on at night, in case someone finds out. He takes it off in the morning. His little brother is always complaining about the smell, and frankly, I can’t blame him." Brothers are such whiners! Poor Martin’s face was red as a fire engine, and he had tears in his eyes.

"I can probably help, if you’re willing to take my advice," Aunt Eva said. "You don’t have to put up with that."

"Anything." If Martin didn’t know it, he was now in big trouble.

We were on the golf course by 9:15. There were relatively few players, with the tournament scheduled for later in the morning. I was somewhat negligent in my caddying duties as I bumped along towing my aunt’s cart behind me as I ignored hooks and slices and her score while trying to absorb what I had learned about Martin. It was difficult. I knew very well that I wasn’t the only bedwetter in the world, even if it often felt that I was alone in my shame and humiliation. But I had never met a real live bedwetter before (at least to my knowledge), and I was surprised that Martin looked so...ordinary, even so cool. He looked like the type of guy who’s popular with guys, who gets the prettiest girl, who unanimously gets elected captain of the debating or basketball team. I could hardly believe he was a lowly bedwetter like me. Poor guy, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. Not even the twins, not even my idiotic brother, who I now gave in and imagined in free-fall from the Leaning Tower.

We waited behind the second tee as Eva and Jane tried to decide which clubs to choose. Martin looked very upset, still on the verge of tears. He wasn’t being a very good caddy either. We never even suggested a number two wood or a number three iron. He spoke quietly. "Does your mom or your aunt, um, do they ah, do they actually diaper you?" He had trouble saying the word. I had trouble hearing it.

"Yes. Or my brother, or my cousins, or anybody. Anyone can do it. Except me. I’m not allowed."

"Man, I don’t think I could stand wearing diapers like a baby. Or getting diapered by someone. People will find out, I’ll be a laughingstock. What am I going to do? What happens if you refuse?"

"Then I get a spanking first." I explained about the regular weekly spanking, plus irregular paddling punishments for showing defiance or a lack of cooperation. I told him about my calendar, about having to bend over, about my bare butt.

"Jeez! Will I get spanked? Oh, man! I’m fourteen!"

"Not necessarily. That’s just my mom. Also, I still get diapered ‘cause I refused to do it myself. That was dumb, I admit it. And I have to wear that stupid sleeper thing ‘cause I took my diapers off and got caught. Your mom might be real discreet about everything."

"But she’s accepting advice from your aunt."

This was true.

Martin’s impending treatment, whatever it was to be, made me anxious and a little angry. I liked the guy. On the fifth hole fairway my aunt’s ball sailed into the woods. I found it easily at the base of a pine tree, and buried it under a rock. She took a two stroke penalty, and I felt a little better.

"I guess everyone knows about—you know—your diapers and everything?" Martin asked a little later.

"I get called ‘diaper-boy’ or whatever by kids I don’t even know," I told him. "At school, at the mall, on the street. Everybody knows. I can’t really show my face anywhere without getting teased, even by little kids."

"Do you ever get used to it? I mean do you get sort of desensitized? I mean does the shame ever go away?" It seemed the poor guy was starting to feel desperate.

"No," I said, "not really." There was no use lying. In fact my sense of pride, dignity and self-worth were under attack every time I was made to lean over to be spanked, every time I was put in diapers and plastic pants, every moment I spent in them, wet or dry, every time I was teased, every time I was even in the presence of someone who knew about my wetting and its ‘solution’. And it never got better. Sometimes I would temporarily ‘forget’ about either being in or needing diapers, and then suddenly the awareness would come flooding back in a renewed wave of shame and helplessness. Or I would re-live a particularly awful event over and over, no doubt making it even worse in my imagination. And even in my dreams I was usually in diapers, often in an awful humiliating situation involving my peers. Or I would wake dazed from a deep sleep, and the unbelievable realization would take a few moments to sink in: one, I was wearing bulky diapers; two, they were soaking wet inside my plastic pants, again; three, maybe I deserved what I got. I hoped Martin wouldn’t have to find all this out for himself.

"Ok, boys, I want you to go up to the top, stand away from the green, and watch where our shots go. Keep your eyes on them." The ninth hole was a very short par three, but the catch was it was uphill. In fact from the tee you couldn’t actually see the green because of the steep rise, and the putting surface was surrounded by woods directly behind, and sand-traps and water-hazards on either side. So caddies would be sent to the top to monitor the blind tee-shots and to report back on their status, while the golfers waited to proceed ahead or take another shot.

Auntie’s ball bounced off a tree and landed about twenty feet beyond the edge of the green, followed by Martin’s mom’s, which splashed into shallow water. This would be the last hole, as the course would be closed for the tournament, and we weren’t sorry not to be doing the full eighteen. The conversation in the car had somewhat depressed us both, and it was hard to get around our mutual lowly status as infantile bedwetters, one still in diapers and the other perhaps soon to be. It was all we could think about. We had also heard Auntie describing to her friend my mom’s and her own policy of ‘creative shaming’ to deal with my wetting, and it seemed likely that Martin would soon be in for some of the same. At his insistence I reluctantly explained some of the obvious finer points of the treatment, mainly that the wetter faces the practical consequences of his enuresis—diapers and everything related—openly, without regard for modesty or privacy, and without exception. Just like a baby. If you wet, this is what you get. Period. And it doesn’t matter if the whole world knows.

I stared in astonishment as Martin picked up his mom’s ball, dried it off with his shirt, and dropped it in the cup. "Maybe it’ll make her feel better," he said with a chuckle. I hesitated for just a moment, retrieved Auntie’s ball, and deposited it in the same place. Two holes-in-one! What were the odds? Then Martin started hollering and yelling for the golfers to come and see. When they arrived, it seemed the event was so extraordinary, they were so astonished and then excited that they didn’t question it. They shook hands, they hugged, they whooped and danced. Martin explained that his mom’s ball had bounced twice and rolled into the cup, and that Auntie’s had hit the pin and dropped straight down. Of course I didn’t disagree with these observations, and added a few details of my own.

The mood was happy as word of the unusual coincidence spread through the busy clubhouse, and the ladies were congratulated as golfing heroes. They really seemed to be basking in the attention, and I concluded that Martin’s plan had had a lot of merit. My usually penny-pinching aunt’s elation was such that she didn’t even balk at the notion of honoring the long-standing tradition of buying drinks for the house on such an occasion, and it was a very full house. Martin and I had just finished a commendatory toast to each other with our ginger-ales when I saw an older man approach Auntie for a quiet word. He was carrying a bird-book and a set of binoculars.

"I’ve never felt so foolish in my entire life!" Auntie said on the way home.

"What on earth were you thinking?" Jane wanted to know.

"Do you know how much that little prank cost us?" Auntie was back to normal. "One hundred ninety-six dollars and seventy cents. That’s how much."

"Did you really expect to get away with it?" Martin’s mom.

"Well we would have if it wasn’t for that stupid old busybody birdwatcher," Martin answered. "Why did he have to spy on us? Anyway, we were only trying to do a good deed."

"Well as of today you’re going to have to smarten up, young man, and start taking some responsibility in your life. You’re sure it’s ok to leave him with you for the weekend, Eva?"

"Perfectly fine."

"And remember, you have a completely free hand." Not words you want to hear around Aunt Evil.

So Martin was going to have a sleepover, but I doubted he’d find it that much fun.

Auntie and Jane fumed all the way home, and Jane left after warning Martin to do as he was told. Martin seemed a bit oblivious about what was likely to happen, and I didn’t have much chance to talk to him because the twins were there with Alan and Dustin, and they had already begun teasing me about my upcoming spanking, which I had been trying not to think about without much success. With me the anticipation is almost as bad as the actual punishment. I pre-live every moment, over and over. The brothers were staying for supper and no doubt the show afterward. I had hoped against hope they’d all be out of the house, and it was with a sense of anxiety and dread that I accepted that they would be there to witness my degrading submission to the paddle, and then my diapering. And then having to face them all afterward. I hoped I wouldn’t cry, but I knew I would, probably before Auntie even got started. It was the humiliation.

During supper I was acutely aware of time running out as I nibbled at my chicken nuggets. Martin joined in the general conversation as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and it occurred to me that the boys didn’t know yet that he was a bedwetter. Did he think they wouldn’t find out? Was this guy in denial, or what?

"Johnny, how many are you getting?" Derek asked.

"How many what?" I stalled.

"He pretends he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. How many whacks with the paddle, Mr. En-u-re-sissy." I didn’t answer. "Mom, how many?"

"Johnny, have you been wet every night since last Friday?"

"Um-hum..."

"The max!" Danny exclaimed.

At ten to seven I got the word.

"You can go and get ready now." It was clear to me she was including Martin. "And Johnny, make up two." She meant diapers.

It was hard to handle the diapers in front of Martin, and then the others came into the room. I put together one in the usual way, and then started the second. I had a feeling of unreality.

"How come you’re doing two diapers?" Danny asked. I looked at Martin, and his face went white.

"We’re supposed to take our pants off now," I said to Martin as confidentially as possible.

"No way, man. I’m not wearing any diaper!"

"Martin’s a bedwetter? Don’t tell me we have two babies?" Derek exclaimed. The others laughed derisively, and Martin hung his head.

"You better do it," I said. Hard as it was, I removed my own pants and underwear. The alternative was worse. The boys stared. I shivered in fear and embarrassment.

"I want my mom," Martin said. He was on the verge of tears.

"Martin wants his mommy. Poor baby!" Derek mocked.

"Your mother knows exactly what’s going on. She told you there’d be changes. Now get your pants off so we can put you in your diapers for the night. You may as well get used to it, because that’s the way it’s going to be from now on, and neither your mother or I will accept any nonsense." Aunt Eva had come in to the room, and I think she already knew he wasn’t going to cooperate. Martin looked stunned, and was crying. But he made no move.

"No? Well maybe this will help you change your mind!" She grabbed the paddle and forced Martin into a bending position over the bed. I think he was too shocked to resist, but she held him tight with her left arm and began to spank him severely on his pants. He was crying hard.

"Man, that must hurt!" Dustin observed. She spanked and spanked as I looked on in shock, semi-naked, powerlessly waiting for my own turn.

"I don’t want to wear diapers," Martin wailed. "Please, I can’t!"

"You can and you will," Auntie informed him. "And I’ll tell you something else, young man. First you’re getting twenty strokes on your bare bum, and the number goes up for every second you keep me waiting. Understood?" The spanking continued at a fast pace. Auntie has good stamina.

"Ok." Martin straightened up, undid the button on his jeans, unzipped them, stepped out of them, and then took his underwear off. I felt sorry for him. His shoulders were hunched, tears streamed down his face, and he looked totally small and defeated. Sort of like me.

"Now lean over." He did, and I wondered how he must feel getting spanked for the first time, while staring at the thick diaper he would be wearing in a few moments. I thought I knew. The paddle sounded different on his bare skin, which was very red. Auntie warned him that she’d add strokes if he tried to move to avoid the paddle, which he did a couple of times. The boys kept count. "Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!"

"Derek, if you’ll diaper Martin, I’ll see to Johnny." This made Martin cry more.

"Sure."

Aunt Eva checked my calendar. "So. You’ve earned the full twenty-one. Congratulations." I was looking at Martin, who looked like he didn’t know what to do. He stared at the floor. Derek sprinkled baby powder on the diaper.

"Martin, lie down on your diaper," Derek ordered. Your diaper. That must’ve hurt. He guided the semi-unresponsive boy down, then sprinkled powder on him. A now quietly crying Martin hid his face as Derek brought the diaper between his legs and pinned one side, then the other.

"Johnny, bend over. If I have to tell you again, I’m adding five strokes."

"At least the paddle will be nice and warm," Dustin laughed. Imagine having to submit to a demeaning spanking in front of a superior little twerp who makes jokes at your expense. Not only that, he was using my diaper pail as a stool, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. I did as I was told, and began to cry as I anticipated the first blow. This was always one of the worst moments, when you’re waiting for the spanking to begin. Spankers instinctively know this and prolong the agony. You get all tense waiting, and this probably makes it hurt more. Derek was snapping Martin into a pair of my vinyl pants. His face was still hidden. I felt the first sting of the paddle. They counted for me too. As usual Auntie did a good job, and my butt was on fire as she diapered me and put me in the same type of snap-on pants as Martin was wearing.

"Hey, they look like twins!" Dustin said. We did even more as we were put into identical sleepers. This was one more insult for poor Martin, who was asked whether he’d prefer walking around in just his diapers and a tee-shirt instead. Of course he chose the escape-proof sleeper, and we waddled around like that until bedtime, enduring the taunts and teasing of my cousins and their friends. It was bad enough for me, but this was Martin’s first time ever being spanked, and his first time in diapers since he was a baby; and suddenly having to adjust to one’s new infantile appearance and status is not easy. Since I had the only plastic sheet we were made to sleep in the same bed. The sheet and our pants made quite a lot of noise, a constant reminder of our shame. I tried to comfort Martin, but he quietly cried a lot. Besides, what could I say? If Auntie’s advice were followed, he would be regularly spanked, he would be put in diapers every night, and everyone would know he was a diapered wetter. Just like me. There was no bright side. Well, a dry bed. Big deal. Sometimes I even leak.

The next morning we were both wet, and had to wait for my Aunt to free us from our sleepers. We had been expressly prohibited from doing it for each other. Derek and Danny merely held their noses and made demeaning juvenile comments.

"Did you mark your calendar?" Auntie asked.

"Yes." As I wrote the ‘W’ earlier, Martin eyed the paddle as if he couldn’t believe it had been used on him. And might be again. His face went red.

"Martin, are you wet too?"

"Yes."

"Well I have a calendar for you too. You can start marking it as of today, and you’ll be spanked accordingly at the end of the week by your mom. You guys aren’t off to a very good start." So it was confirmed. I felt bad for Martin. "And another thing. Mr. Blair across the street is very handy at woodworking, and I’ve arranged for him to make you a paddle, Martin, just like Johnny’s. It’ll be ready for you to take with you when you leave tomorrow." Gee, thanks. You shouldn’t have.

Martin seemed depressed all day. I actually heard an electric saw running somewhere across the street, and he must’ve heard it also. Also, I knew he was thinking about the evening, and we both became more anxious as seven o’clock approached.

"What do you think about, like when you’re getting your diapers put on?" he asked as I was getting ours ready.

"I just try not to die of embarrassment. Sometimes I try to think of other things, but it doesn’t really work. You just can’t ignore what’s happening--the smells, the sounds, the feelings, the nightmare."

"There isn’t a trick or anything?"

"No. We better get...ready." Martin blushed deep red, but didn’t resist this time. The twins were out, so we waited alone in only our tee-shirts for Auntie to come. We looked away from each other, respecting each others’ modesty. Auntie arrived.

"Well that’s better! Lie down, Martin, and I’ll diaper you first." He covered himself, and Auntie brushed his hands away. He had been ok to that point. Now he started to cry, but complied immediately. He looked like a little boy.

"I feel like such a baby!" he wailed.

"Well no wonder! Now lift your bum so I can snap your rubber pants on you."

Then it was my turn.

The twins came home with friends we hadn’t met, so we had to put up with their questions and contemptuous comments and teasing. Derek grabbed Martin unawares, put him over his knee and spanked him a few times while speaking ‘babytalk’, and saying "I want my mommy!" Of course Martin’s pants made a lot of noise under his sleeper, bringing laughter to the group and tears to Martin. We both wet again that night.

Martin’s mom arrived at about noon on Sunday, and had a long talk with Aunt Eva. Poor Martin was forced to stand there, staring at the floor in front of the twins and me holding a cardboard box containing his calendar, a bunch of diapers from my huge supply, pins, plastic pants, vinyl pants, rubber pants, and the new paddle that thoughtful Mr. Blair had indeed delivered after a final touch of drilling holes in its surface to reduce drag and any cushion of air between it and bare skin. Martin and his mom would stop on the way home for baby powder, wipes, diaper rash creme, and a diaper pail. I said goodbye to my friend and went upstairs for some peace.

I got double-dumped, if you can believe it. Aunt Eva was given a three-day package tour to Las Vegas from a friend whose sudden illness prevented her from going. It was a non-refundable trip for three, and of course her husband and son weren’t going to go without her. In fairness, my Aunt had called the travel agent and tried to include me ("I think I’ll put you in disposable diapers to save trouble..."), but it had proved impossible, and an alternative had to be found, or she and my cousins wouldn’t be able to go.

"Couldn’t we just hire a babysitter? It couldn’t be that expensive," Derek suggested. A babysitter! Of course in a different situation they would be allowed to stay on their own.

"Yes, if all else fails, that’s what we’ll do," Aunt Eva said. "But I have another idea."

The idea was to ship me over to Martin’s. Naturally I was apprehensive, as this would mean being put in diapers by his mom, a near stranger, and a stickler for the Aunt Evil method. But it couldn’t be worse than having it done by a ‘babysitter’, and I would get time to spend with Martin, who I hadn’t seen since he last stood in our living-room shamefaced with his box of my ex-diapers, plastic pants, and his horrible, brand-spanking new paddle. I had talked to him on the phone a few times.

"Hi Martin, how’s it going?"

"Ok. Actually, pretty bad. Can I talk to you?"

"Of course. What do you think?"

"You won’t make fun of me or anything?"

"Martin, it’s me. We’re in the same boat, remember? The same leaky boat."

"Yeah. I’m getting it just like you. Mom diapers me every night, and it doesn’t matter who’s around, and if I make a fuss I get spanked first. Plus I get a regular spanking on Friday, just like you. Bare butt. It hurts. Plus if she’s busy or out or something, Dean has to diaper me, just like I was a baby. He’s even allowed to spank me too, if I don’t do what he says. He’s only thirteen, you know. All his friends have seen me in my diapers, and mine too, except I don’t have any anymore. My relatives and my mom’s friends have all seen me too, so now everybody knows."

"Are you getting teased a lot?"

"All the time. And I wet just about every night now. I used to have one or two dry nights a week. I feel totally infantile. And that’s how Dean treats me too. Now it’s like he’s the older one. He used to complain a lot, but now he’s really bossy and mean, and never gives me a break."

I knew how he felt. I hadn’t met Dean, but my relationship with my cousins was similar. They treated me with condescension and contempt, and never missed a chance to ridicule or humiliate me. They saw my wetting as a weakness which justified whatever punitive measures they could dream up. More and more of my diapering was being delegated to Danny and Derek, and whether they resented it or just used the opportunity to punish me, they almost always found a pretext to spank me, even though I tried to be as submissive as possible. It even happened in front of Alan and Dustin. That time I think Derek had just been showing off his power.

"Ok, bend over."

"Oh man, watch this!" Dustin said.

"What?" It was all I could do to take my pants off in preparation of being diapered, but I had complied. It killed me every time.

"But I didn’t do anything!"

"You’re a bedwetter, aren’t you? Bend over!"

"But..." He started counting.

"Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five..."

In tears, I finally did as I was told, and received twenty-five strokes. My aunt came to see what the fuss was about. Derek was pinning my diapers on me.

"The boy just wouldn’t cooperate," he said. This was the stock excuse. It got to the point that I was being spanked almost every day except when Auntie did the diapering, and even then sometimes if she judged me not compliant enough.

"Never mind, he’ll learn eventually!"

Later Dustin came up and patted my rear on my plastic pants. I hate that, and it’s amazing how many people do it It’s as if plastic pants covering diapers on a boy are a magnet. "Sore butt?" Stupid question. "You have to learn to cooperate, Johnny!"

A few days later the twins, their mom and I ran into Martin’s mom at the mall. I was glad Martin wasn’t there to hear himself talked about, and wished I wasn’t either.

"Don’t bother to send any diapers with Johnny, he can just wear some of the ones you generously gave to Martin," his mom said to Aunt Eva. She spoke in a normal voice. People could hear. The twins grinned at each other.

"Ok. How’s it going?"

"Fine. I’m sticking to the rules. Of course Martin hates the whole diaper thing, he cries and makes a fuss, but not too much of a fuss or he gets spanked. I’m fairly severe about that. Anyway, the place smells better, his brother’s happy, and I’m satisfied."

"Is he wetting any less?"

"No, more, if anything, but I don’t care. He’ll just stay in his diapers as long as necessary. It’s not a problem. I should’ve done it much sooner."

"And you’re spanking him consistently?"

"Every Friday evening and sometimes in between. He gets the same as Johnny, here. I agree with you that if spankings don’t reduce the wetting, they at least send a message that we don’t approve of enuretic behavior. He begs me not to use the paddle on him, but like I’ve said, I’ve been tough. You have to be, it’s for his own good. And of course Dean’s been a big help. He’s very responsible. When he spanks, the message really gets across. And the same when he diapers Martin; there’s an extra element of shame, because he’s almost two years younger, after all. I’m very proud of Dean. He’s really trying to help his brother learn to stay dry."

"Yes, the twins have been a help with Johnny. It makes it so much easier. After all, in many ways it’s just like having a baby in the house."

"It sure is," Derek added, and Danny laughed.

My relatives dropped me off at Martin’s and then continued on to the airport. I wished them ‘Bon Voyage’. I told them I’d miss them, but I exaggerated.

"This is my brother, Dean," Martin said. He looked like a slightly smaller version of Martin; blonde, blue eyed, skinny but wiry. We shook hands. I thought I could tell he already knew all about my diapers. Something about the way he looked at me. You develop a sense about these things. I was instructed by Martin’s mom to put my things in the room I’d be sharing with Martin and Dean. Martin showed me the way. A fold-up bed had been partly readied for me—that is, it had been unfolded and a well-used looking plastic sheet had been placed on the mattress. One of Martin’s I guessed. It really smelled of urine, and I recalled that Martin used to wet a lot without using diapers. I put my bag down and looked around. The room looked remarkably like mine at home, and the one I shared with my cousins. Near Martin’s bed was a table with shelf. The shelf contained the assortment of waterproof pants donated by myself, plus powder, pins, creme, and some Pampers wipes. Right out in the open, that was the plan. On top was a large stack of folded cloth diapers also formerly of yours truly, but also some new ones still in packages. Curity pre-folded baby diapers. Also flannelette baby diapers. Some had been removed. New ones to use inside the Babykins, just like with me.

"Man," Martin said, noticing my stare, "my mom made me go with her to Wal-Mart, to the baby section. Then I had to walk around the store with those two packs of diapers. A kid I know spotted me and he jokes to my mom ‘New diapers for Martin?’ and I thought she’d make an excuse, but she goes ‘Yes, unfortunately. Oh, and Martin we need a diaper pail for you, too, don’t forget.’ The kid knew she was serious. I almost died!"

Above Martin’s table was his calendar. Although the pictures were different than mine (vintage cars), the markings under the days were identical to mine—W, W, W, W, on and on. And below the calendar, just as with me, was Martin’s varnished paddle. It still amazed me that this Mr. Blair, whoever he was, would go to the trouble of drilling holes so that the paddle would inflict more pain to the backside of a boy he would never even know. What a world!

"What are those marks?" The paddle had little ‘x’s’ marked on its handle in ink.

"Oh, my mom or Dean puts a mark on it every time it gets used on me. A sort of record, I guess."

"It’s been used a lot, already."

"Yeah. Sometimes I fight it when they diaper me."

"Does it hurt more than mine?" I asked, still thinking about those holes.

"I dunno. I only got yours once. It’s hard to say. It hurts plenty, though. I guess you’ll see tomorrow. You can judge for yourself." Tomorrow was Friday. It was crazy, but it had sort of escaped my attention that this thing would be used on me. Of course it would! Tomorrow! I examined it with renewed interest, and dread.

"One thing bugs me though. I always start to cry before I even get smacked once. That’s so lame. I’d like to be able to just take it and not show how much it bothers me."

"Me too."

"By the way, bad news. Dean’s babysitting tonight. Tomorrow too, I think. I hate that."

"You call it ‘babysitting’? You get babysat? My Aunt was thinking of doing that too," shuddering again at the thought of being under the care of an official ‘babysitter’.

"That’s what my mom calls it, and Dean. You have to do what he says, and he’s even allowed to spank. Mom thinks he’s so responsible. If you refuse, mom will give you five maximum 21 stroke spankings over five hours. I thought my butt was going to fall off. I mean I spent the whole afternoon getting spanked, and then I couldn’t sit down for three days. Be careful. Dean doesn’t take any crap."

In fact I heard him on the phone a short while later. "I can’t. I have to baby-sit. I promised. Why don’t you guys come over here instead? No, they’re not actual babies—it’s my brother and his friend. Close enough! Remember I told you? They both wear diapers for bedwetting. I have to be in charge of them. Not all the time, just if my mom goes out or whatever. Um, fourteen, and, Johnny, how old are you? Right, he’s fifteen. Yeah, I know it’s weird...Ok, see you, Mito."

We were in the kitchen having supper. Martin’s mom had already said her good-byes, but now ushered in Dean’s friends. "Let’s see if I’ve got this right: Anthony," she said to the taller, "Taylor, and Mito. Right?"

"Right. Good memory," said Mito, who appeared Japanese. All three boys were around Dean’s age, which meant the differences in our ages should have been just enough to make them ‘little kids’ to Martin and me in the complicated politics of adolescence. All the worse for us. I nervously wondered what would happen. Martin’s mom left after conveying to Martin a subtle warning look, and we finished our supper. The boys regarded us with barely concealed curiosity, and exchanged meaningful glances with each other, and even nervous laughter. They had been talking about us.

"So Dean, this is your brother?" Anthony asked, guessing right. Or it was the family resemblance.

"Yep. That’s Martin, that’s Johnny." The boys made greeting noises. Martin stared at his empty plate. I knew something was coming.

"We heard you guys pee the bed and have to wear diapers," Taylor said, getting right to the point. "Like babies. That true?" More nervous laughter. There were no denials, and the statement was left hanging around our necks. A moment later Dean invited them to his room, and they went.

"They’re from a kung-fu club. Dean just joined."

"Is he going to diaper us right in front of them do you think?"

"I’d say we can count on that," he said, his voice shaky.

"Could we just leave?"

"It would only make it worse. I think we better just take our medicine like...like babies. Just try not to provoke him, or it’ll be worse. Oh, man!"

We were called to the room. Martin looked pale as we walked down the hallway, knowing what to expect. Two diapers lay ready side by side along the width of my plastic covered mattress. They looked exactly as if I myself had made them up, a combination of a Babykins youth diaper with baby pre-folds and flannelette inside. Also on the mattress were powder, pins, snap-on vinyl pants, and the paddle as a warning, I supposed. The boys stood in a little knot nearby with Dean a little distance away. My heart was skipping.

"By the way, John, does one of those diapers look right for you, ‘cause I can make it thicker. Are you a heavy wetter?" he asked, without a trace of sarcasm. I was afraid I’d freeze. How was I going to get through this? I looked at the paddle. It was amazing that he could use it on us if he wanted.

"Um, normal, I guess."

"He’s a normal wetter!" Taylor said. Laughter.

"Time to put you in your diapers, guys." Unreality was setting in.

With shaky hands Martin slowly undid the button of his tan cargo pants, his zipper, and pulled the pants down as I did the same with my jeans. Forced to undress so that we could be diapered in front of taunting juveniles, all younger than us! What could be more embarrassing? And poor Martin with his younger brother as the ‘babysitter’ in charge of diapers! He seemed to shrink measurably, and I bet I did too. Now he stood only in his tee-shirt and colorful Tommy Hilfigger boxers.

"Hey, same underwear as me," Mito said.

"Not for long!" Taylor joked. Blushing badly, we took our shorts down and stepped out of them. It was a low moment. I hoped Martin wouldn’t cry, because then I’d start. He did. He let out a sob, and so did I. It was awful standing there, helpless, half-naked in front of these jeering boys, knowing that worse was yet to come. Dean pulled me back until I was sitting on my diaper, then lying on it while my feet stayed on the floor. He had powdered the rear of the diaper, and I could feel the coolness on my lower back and butt. I could smell the powder and the urine from the mattress cover which crinkled under me. This couldn’t be happening. I felt weight and heard sound as Martin was laid on his diaper right beside me. He was crying openly now, and so was I. I stole a teary glance at the boys watching in amusement, and then Dean was sprinkling powder on my front, and then after brushing the bottom of my shirt out of the way, he pulled the diapers up between my legs and pinned them tight with blue diaper pins, which he clamped in his lips like a real babysitter might. It was a relief to have my shameful exposure come to an end, even if I was mortified due to the thick white diaper which now covered me.

"Man, how can they even walk with all that between their legs?" Mito asked.

"I dunno, man. I guess they toddle, they waddle, whatever," Anthony suggested.

Dean had now pinned Martin, and was back to me with pants. I submissively lifted my bum and he slipped the vinyl under me, brought the front up between my legs, and snapped me up before doing the same for Martin. We were still crying, but more softly. Hopelessly.

"Ok, you can stand up." Martin looked pathetic, and I knew he was a mirror-image of me. Teary, hunched, blubbering, absurdly trying to reduce our exposure in diapers and vinyl pants, staring at the floor while we were examined by this little group of unsympathetic specimens of normality.

"Do they always bawl like that?" Mito asked.

"It’s Johnny’s first time here, but apparently he does, and so does Martin."

"It must get to be a pain for you, all this baby stuff and babysitting, and whatnot," Taylor observed. "Not to mention the pee-pee smell."

"Yeah, but mostly my mom does it. Besides, I get my revenge on Fridays."

"What happens Fridays?"

"That’s when bedwetters get their official spanking. I dunno about them, but I always feel better."

"Hey guys, we’ll have to come back tomorrow. Just kidding..."

"No, you’d be doing us a favor. My mom says the extra shame is good for them."

Speaking of which, we wallowed in plenty right now as we continued as objects of curiosity, ridicule, and revulsion. They marveled at the bulk of our diapers (and the probable fact that they would soon be as soaking wet as those of any infant), the very babyishness of our appearance, the revealing sounds of disgrace our pants made as we moved, and when Martin went noisily to retrieve the pajama bottoms he was allowed (after first asking), he was followed and mocked by Taylor who talked in babytalk and pretended a similar thickness between his own legs. Martin’s pajamas did little to conceal what was underneath, and my teasing continued as I was put into my sleeper and its purpose explained.

We tried to watch TV, but it was hard to concentrate. At first we were alone, and I asked Martin why he didn’t wear a dressing-gown over his pajamas. "I’m not allowed," he answered. "Everybody has to know I’m in diapers." He sniffled and sighed, and hid his head in his arms. The boys came in to watch TV just as a Pull-ups commercial came on. It didn’t surprise me, given my luck. Dean stayed out of it, but the others made jokes.

"Do you know why Martin’s mom won’t buy him any Pull-ups?" Anthony asked.

"Why?"

"Cause he’s a big kid now!" he sang.

"Are you guys ever put in Pampers or stuff like that?" Mito asked. We tried to ignore him.

"Really. Does your mom use disposables on you? Wouldn’t it be easier?"

"My mom likes cloth," Martin said.

"Where’s she get them? And your baby pants?" Mito asked. What was it with this guy?

"Um, mine came mostly from Johnny." He squirmed. I squirmed.

"Interesting. So the diapers you’re now wearing have been wet by Johnny, probably many times. And is vice-versa true? Have Johnny’s current diapers been wet by you?"

"Yes. I guess so." Martin looked like he was going to cry again.

"Well I’ve heard of Blues Brothers, blood brothers, now I finally met a pair of Piss Brothers. Hey piss-bro!" The boys laughed. I could only hope the term wouldn’t stick.

Later on, Mito sniffed the air theatrically. "Speaking of ‘piss-bros’, Mr. babysitter, I think you should check your boys. Something smells funny here."

"Martin?" Dean said.

"I’m dry!"

"Stand up." An ashen-faced Martin did as he was told, and his brother stretched the waistbands of his pajamas and vinyl pants. Martin flinched as Dean reached in and felt the outside of his diapers. Dean released the pants with a snap and Martin sat down and cradled his head in his arms.

"Johnny, stand up."

"I’m dry!" This was not 100% true, and I was terrified. I stood up, and when Dean reached for the tab on my sleeper, I jerked out of his way.

"You don’t have to check me. I’m dry!"

"Well you don’t smell dry." I realized he had me, and let him unzip me. He took the sleeper to my waist and looked inside my pants.

"You’re soaking wet!"

"I didn’t know!" About fifteen minutes earlier I realized I had wet. It had happened once or twice before in moments of intense anxiety caused by teasing or humiliation. Maybe I could have avoided the problem by keeping an empty bladder, but I was too proud to ask my ‘babysitter’ to undo my sleeper and let me go to the bathroom. He took my sleeper down to the floor and made me step out of it.

"Go and wait by your bed."

"One good thing—at least he was wearing diapers," Taylor joked.

"Do I sense a spanking, perhaps?" Anthony asked.

"Guys, I want you to see this. You too, Martin."

Beside myself in dread and shame, I walked or waddled or toddled past them into the bedroom and waited by my bed. They soon followed. This would be entertainment for Dean’s friends, and a lesson for Martin. And of course for me.

"Lie down." I lay on my back on the plastic sheet.

"You guys should hire a freakin’ nanny for them." Taylor said. The boys laughed. Martin looked on solemnly. At least he wouldn’t enjoy this. Dean unsnapped my pants and laid the front out straight. Then he undid the diaper pins and tossed them onto the mattress cover for later, and brought the front of the diaper down onto the vinyl pants, taking care not to get pee on his fingers. The air felt cold on my wet skin, and once again I was acutely embarrassed to be naked in front of a crowd.

"Lift up." I did, and Dean slid the diaper and pants from under me, touching only the dry pants. He dropped the whole bundle into the diaper pail, and returned the lid. Then he reached for a Pampers wipe.

"See, he does use Pampers," Mito said.

"Stand up." I did, and Dean wiped me off while I stared at the floor. He did a thorough job, exactly as if he were cleaning up a baby. It was hard to let him, but I was afraid of what was coming, and didn’t want to make it worse.

"Now lean over the mattress and wait." I did. I think even my butt was blushing.

"Can I have another chance?" This caused a bit of laughter.

"Doesn’t hurt to ask, I guess," Anthony said.

"Mito, could you hand me the paddle from the wall, there?" I had thought of refusing to let Dean do it, but remembered what Martin said regarding the consequences of that. Along with my regular spanking tomorrow, I would receive five more, maybe even in front of the same audience. It was better to just get it over with.

I waited and waited, ever closer to tears, and finally they came before the first slap of the paddle. Dean spanked pretty hard. It was difficult to say whether this hurt more than my own paddle, but it stung plenty. The diaper pins bounced from the plastic sheet and landed again with each blow.

"Man he’s pretty good with that thing, I guess it’s all the practice, right Martin?" Anthony said.

"I’ll certainly remember to behave whenever I come over," Taylor said.

"I’ll try real hard not to pee my pants," Mito joked.

I was disappointed when Dean got to ten and didn’t stop. I was crying pretty hard, but didn’t resist or impede him in any way. Maybe he took pity, because he stopped at fifteen.

"Ok. Wait while I make up a fresh diaper for you." This would only take a minute, but it felt like hours while I stood there in hideous embarrassment, my butt on fire, bawling like an infant. Dean diapered me just as before, but this time he chose a pair of plasticized nylon pull-on pants from Babykins that were amongst the ones I gave Martin. He guided my ankles through, then pulled them up over my diapers. A feature of these pants is that you can clearly see the diapers through them.

"There. Since you don’t know that you wet and don’t tell, now we can keep an eye on the situation. You can have your sleeper when you go to bed. Another thing. The spanking was for wetting; for lying, you’re going to stand in the corner in the living room until bedtime."

I did. I stood facing the wall in disgrace in only my diapers, see-through plastic pants, a tee-shirt and socks as they all watched TV and talked and joked. Of course Martin didn’t join in and was asked if he ever has to stand in the corner, and mumbled ‘yes’. Twice Mito came over to me, turned me around, peered through the plastic pants at the front of my diapers, and announced "Guess what? The boy’s still dryyyyy for now! Good boy!" This brought sarcastic clapping and cheering.

I was finally put in my sleeper by Dean, allowed to make my bed, and climb into it. The visitors had not left yet, and I figured now that I was gone they were renewing their torments on Martin. After such an emotionally draining day, I quickly fell asleep in spite of the discomfort to my backside.

I woke up in pitch blackness, wet, and with a curious sensation that somebody was in my bed. Was I dreaming? No, I clearly heard the plastic sheet crinkle, and I had not moved a muscle. "Hey, Piss-bro!"

"What’re you doing here?"

"Shhh. Dean’s asleep. I came to visit."

"What if he hears?"

"I’ll just tell him I sprung a leak and didn’t want to change my sheets. Are you going for Blackjack tomorrow?"

"I am now. I’m soaked, that makes seven." ‘Blackjack’ was the term we used to describe the maximum number of strokes with the paddle on a Friday—twenty-one.

"Same here. What a pain."

We talked for what seemed like hours, about everything—diapers, spankings, sports, school, our hopes and dreams, secrets we had never told anyone; we whined and complained, told jokes, told stories, but no lies. When we woke up in the morning, wet, smelly, happy, hugging each other, I thought it had been the most magnificent night of my life. Martin agreed.

That evening, Martin was given his ‘Blackjack’ first, by Dean again, in front of the same gawkers with the addition of Ian, a geek who left us alone, but he was there watching it all, right? As usual Martin was crying as he waited to be put in his diapers. I was crying uncontrollably as the fifteenth stroke bit into my already painful butt. Once again the diaper pins danced on the bed with every stroke. And once again we had to endure the sarcastic comments of the audience as Dean did his work, and they counted for him. Suddenly I felt Martin close to me. He leaned and whispered in my ear before Dean could stop him. "Smoke that paddle, Piss-bro!"

I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh, and so did Martin. It was crazy, insane. We were both bawling like crazy, and laughing at the same time. It was all mixed up. I didn’t think that was possible, but it must be, ‘cause we did it. I’m not sure which was loudest, but maybe it was the laughing, by a bit. Suddenly we were winning a little, and it felt good.

"Get over here, you dumb bedwetter," I said into the phone.

"I can’t, you infantile diaper-wearing scuz," Martin replied. We often joked like this. It was a way to laugh at our common problem and make it seem smaller.

"I wish you could come over."

"Me too. But you know we’re both kind of passively busy on a Friday evening. I get the max in one hour." I felt a shiver of fear and apprehension go through me. One hour.

"Same here. Max minus five for the spanking I already got. Who’s doing it?"

"My mom. Dean’s having a big sleepover for his birthday. I begged her not to spank and diaper me in front of Dean’s friends. I asked if she could do it in her room with the door closed, and to let me sleep in there, too. Or in the living room by myself."

"And?"

He sarcastically mimicked his mom. "‘Bedwetters have to take the consequences of their habit, and unfortunately for you that includes spankings, diapers, and no hiding the fact that you require them both.’ She said she’s sorry for my embarrassment, but that’s part of the price I have to pay."

"Jeez, sounds like Aunt Evil..."

"Exactly. Well that’s where she got it. Anyway, Dean’s having about eight kids over, and they can all watch my butt get paddled and diapered if they want. That’s a pretty big price if you ask me. I’m already getting all shaky."

I knew what he meant. One time I pleaded with my brother Rob not to invite his friends to a sleepover, but he was determined. He said it was his turn. It was a Saturday, so I was to be spared a spanking in front of them, but they were all in the room when the time came to make up a diaper for myself and then get undressed and wait for my mom to come and put it on me. But I couldn’t do it. Even though my diapers and other ‘baby’ stuff were right in the open for anyone to see (and of course they all had seen and had their fun checking out my ‘infant-wear’, calendar, and paddle) I just couldn’t go near any of it, much less make the move to prepare diapers right in front of them and then get myself ready to be put in them. It was too much. I was increasingly panicky because I knew what would happen, but I was powerless to avert it, even though Rob warned me. My annoyed mother put me down hard on the bed, pulled my pants and underwear off, turned me over, raised my tee-shirt up my back, and gave me ten hard smacks with the paddle in front of everyone. All the time I was thinking this can’t be happening, but you don’t feel such real pain to your butt in a nightmare. I stayed in that position, dying, hiding my face in my hands while she made up the usual combination of a youth Babykins and baby diapers, turned me on my back and powdered and diapered me, then put me in plastic pants while saying how foolish I was for making it so hard on myself. My brother’s friends were recovering from their awe of the situation and at having been a bit subdued by my mother’s anger, and now I heard snickering, sarcastic comments, and the inevitable playful ‘baby talk’. I wondered if it might actually be possible to die of shame. I had to be around them like that the whole evening and submit to their teasing and cruel comments without being able to look at any of them in the eye, and then have to lie in bed with them all around, reliving my humiliation, terrified that I would wake up in soaking wet diapers and that they would all know it. Of course that’s exactly what happened. Being in diapers in front of kids is bad enough, but at least you can feebly deny that you really need them (it’s just your mom being mean), not that that gets you very far. But once your diapers are actually soaking wet, there goes your final pathetic excuse along with your last shred of dignity. Anyway, sleepovers are not my favorite thing, even though I don’t go to them. The problem is, the odd one comes to me.

Now there was something else. My aunt is a ‘networker’; she’s a busy bee, all nervous energy and dumb ideas. Somehow, through the internet or some parents’ group, she connected with families of occasional bedwetters and started an informal ‘community service’ that the twins immediately called ‘Scared Dry’. I was to be the example to kids of what could happen if you kept wetting the bed. Kids would be sent to the house or sometimes be accompanied by a parent around seven o’clock as I was prepared for bed. The idea was that the occasional bedwetters would identify with what was happening to me and stop wetting to avoid my fate. Of course it was immediately realized that the lesson would be far more effective if I was ‘demonstration paddled’ before being diapered, and in ‘fairness’ the strokes (only five so far) were to be deducted from my regular weekly spanking. Only one session had happened yet, but I lived with the knowledge that any night I might be used as an example of what can and should happen to a chronic bedwetter.

Paul and Damien arrived around ten to seven on Thursday. Paul had insisted on coming alone, Damien was accompanied by his mother who waited in a car outside after consulting Aunt Evil on a cell phone. It was very awkward. They were shy and embarrassed, and of course so was I. But needless to say Danny and Derek were clearly enjoying themselves. The boys both looked about twelve years old. We went to the twins’ and my bedroom, and Aunt Eva pointed out my ‘baby’ stuff while picking up diapers to assemble for me to wear. She silently handed them to Derek, who started putting them together on my bed. He didn’t mind at all. I was beside myself with embarrassment. This was bad, worse was to come.

"So you’re both twelve?" Aunt Eva asked.

"Yes," Paul said.

"I’m almost thirteen," Damien revealed.

"And you still wet the bed," Aunt Eva accused. Both boys turned beet red.

"Not very often," said Damien.

"Me about twice a month, only," Paul said.

"I guess like Johnny here, you guys have to have a noisy plastic sheet on your mattress?" Danny asked.

"Yeah." They both looked at the floor.

"That’s sooo babyish!" Derek said. He was finished my diaper. My aunt set a pair of plastic pants and diaper pins beside it. The kids squirmed uncomfortably. Me too. Auntie picked up the neatly folded diaper and handed it to Damien. "See how thick Johnny’s diaper is? Feel how heavy? How would you like to have that between your legs and pinned on with real baby-diaper pins?" She picked one up to demonstrate.

"I wouldn’t," Damien said. He was near tears.

"How would you like to have to wear baby pants like Johnny?" Danny asked.

"No," he said. Aunt Eva took the diaper and handed it to Paul, who didn’t want to touch it, and took it only reluctantly.

"You know, if you have to be put in diapers, sooner or later everyone finds out about it—your friends, kids at school, everybody. Did you ever think about that? Would you like everyone to know you need diapers, and have lots of people see you wearing them too?"

"No," they both said.

"Everybody knows about this bedwetter," said Derek. "Even little kids call him a baby."

"Ok Johnny, let’s show Paul and Damien what it’s like to be a big baby. Take your pants and underwear off, please." I reluctantly did as I was told, knowing it would be worse if I showed any resistance. I turned my back to them, but was still acutely aware of being stared at. They saw the signs of my perennial diaper rash. Another good reason to stop.

"Bend over, please. Paul, see that wooden paddle hanging there? Could you hand it to me please? Many frequent bedwetters get a regular spanking to remind them that it’s not acceptable." As usual the wait for the first stroke was interminable, and humiliation made me start crying before it arrived. I only received five hard smacks, and when it was over and I was being positioned on the diaper, I noticed the two kids were quietly crying also. I guess the lesson was working. Maybe they would even be scared dry. Of course Danny and Derek looked very smug and superior. Danny hung the paddle back on the wall. Auntie powdered me and pulled the diaper up between my legs and pinned it with the blue diaper pins. I felt awful.

"Is this what you guys want to look like, dressed in diapers every night?"

"No," they bawled. Auntie put me in plastic pants. She pulled them over my ankles to my knees, then stood me up and pulled them up over my diapers. It was a helpless feeling to be a wetter, and just as helpless a feeling to have plastic pants pulled up over your thick diaper that smells of fresh powder. Just like an infant! What now?

"Now we’ll leave you alone for a few minutes. You can ask Johnny any questions you like," said Aunt Eva.

"See you babies later," Derek said.

I would have welcomed being put in my sleeper, but was purposely left in just my diapers, plastic pants and tee-shirt to bring home to the boys how ridiculous they would look if they persisted in their bedwetting ways. I was totally ashamed to have been spanked and diapered in front of these two young strangers, and didn’t know what to say or how to face them while looking like such a baby. There was nothing to say. I started to cry, and as they stared at me and perhaps saw themselves, they cried also. Finally Aunt Eva appeared and told them they could go, and I was put in my sleeper. "It’s real good of you to set an example for the younger kids," Derek said later. "You’re an inspiration to us all!" Both cousins laughed and laughed.

"How did it go?" My own regularly scheduled Friday spanking was relatively uneventful except that Aunt Eva had a friend over. The twins were out, so Auntie carried out my punishment. As usual she did not ‘spare the rod’, and while her friend Joan discreetly stayed out of the room, she certainly would have heard sixteen loud smacks, the sound of a boy crying, and his being told to ‘stop blubbering like such a baby’. Then she saw me in my diapers, in my sleeper. She stared hard.

"You’ll have to forgive me for gawking, Eva, but I’ve just never seen such a big boy in diapers before.."

"Yes, amazing isn’t it? And he just got his butt warmed for it, too."

"Yes, I couldn’t help overhearing. Poor kid! So he wets every night, does he?"

I went and hid, and made a phone call.

"So how’d it go for you, Martin?"

"It was awful. The little brats watched my butt get paddled then diapered, and then I had to sleep in the same room as them. My mom told them not to tease, but of course they did. I hardly got any sleep, but I still wet. In the morning they smelled me and started teasing all over again. ‘Martin wet his dia-pers! Martin wet his dia-pers!’ I can’t take it anymore. I’m running away. Want to come? I’m serious."

"Sure!" Just like that. I had had about enough also. The new ‘Scared Dry’ program did it. I was finished being an example. Kids would have to learn to stay dry without my ‘help’.

We both had a little money in the bank. The plan was to take a Greyhound to Toronto, where Martin knew someone who could put us up for a few days. We would look for work. We’d get a place. We’d have fun. We’d be free. The plan was admittedly a bit vague, but what we lacked in detail we made up in determination. The next afternoon we met near his house, and by four o’clock we were on the road.

As we headed along the Trans-Canada highway through (to us) unfamiliar terrain of eastern British Columbia, we both felt exhilarated.

"Bye-bye Vancouver!" I said.

"Bye-bye mean Dean!" said Martin.

"So long crusty cousins!" I said. "Au revoir pisser paddles." (My cousins’ crude coinage.)

"Bye-bye diapers!" said Martin a bit loud, and a person across the aisle gave us a curious look. We chatted, ate snacks from our backpacks, and savored our new-found independence. Time quickly passed, and Martin checked his prized Timex Indiglo watch. "Guess which humiliating exercise was happening yesterday at this time, and never will again?" Bye-bye spankings! Bye-bye diapers!

Eventually the monotonous sound and gentle motion of the bus caused us to fall asleep. I slept for quite awhile, maybe a few hours until being roughly shaken by Martin.

"Wake up, wake up!"

"What’s the matter?"

"I don’t know how to tell you this—I wet my pants! I can’t believe it! What am I going to do?" Martin had fallen asleep with his overhead reading lamp on, and it was easy to see that his pants were not just damp, but soaked. I imagined the seat under him was too. Also, there was quite a strong smell, which would only get worse.

"Stay calm," I said. "Did you bring a second pair?"

"No. I never thought." In fact his pack contained comics, a Walkman, many tapes, a flashlight, some Ding-Dongs, a banana, and one pair of socks. That was it.

"Me either. Maybe you’ll just dry. Too bad these windows don’t open."

"It’ll take hours, and I’ll stink. I’m sorry, man."

"Don’t worry. We’ll just try to ignore it." We did but it was hard, and as time passed the smell got worse and worse, and he didn’t seem to be drying. People around us started grumbling, and the guy across the aisle finally stood up. He looked at Martin’s pants. Martin tried to cover the wet spot with his hands, but the effort was futile.

"I wondered why I heard a big kid saying ‘bye-bye diapers’, but it looks like maybe you should still be in one. You stink, kid." With that the bus pulled over. The driver must have heard, and came the short distance down the aisle to our seats to investigate. He shone a flashlight on my lap, then Martin’s. Now other passengers were looking.

"Damn!" the driver said. "Stand up so I can see the damage to the seat." I got up out of his way and stood in the aisle, and Martin stood and followed. His jeans were soaked front and back, and the bus seat looked bad.

"We’re an hour out of Calgary. You can do what you like, sir, but your wet friend will be getting off there. In the meantime, I’d like him to stay standing." So poor Martin had to stand in the aisle in urine-soaked pants visible to all. There was some tittering nearer the back of the bus, but around us people seemed ever more irritated by the smell. A lady passenger nearby told Martin he should be ashamed of himself, ‘A big boy like you...’ Martin tried to say he was sorry, but a kid around our age shouted "Quiet, piss-boy, anybody got an extra-large Pampers?" Martin just stared at the floor.

"Are you going to stay with me?" he asked quietly. "I wouldn’t blame you if..."

"Forget it. We’re a team. We’re bros. Besides, I have a plan."

"What about our tickets? Will we lose them?"

"No. We’ll spend the night in Calgary, then jump another Greyhound tomorrow night. You’re allowed to do that. No problem. Frankly, I’m sick of this bus. In fact it stinks!"

My plan was to find a cheap motel that would rent a room to a fifteen-year old, and I concocted various cover stories about my dad who would be joining me momentarily (he was fixing a flat for a single mom in the parking lot, he was busy administering CPR to an old guy, he was chasing a robber...) but here’s the money, and if I could just have the key, I really need to use the washroom... But I needn’t have worried. It was late, the young clerk was bored and half-asleep, and here you are, sir, number 207. Sign there. Goodnight.

As it was after midnight, I suggested we worry about Martin’s wet clothes the next day. We had passed a laundromat just up the street; I would take his stuff tomorrow. I handed him a clean garbage bag from the wastebasket in which to store his jeans and underwear, and he went to have a shower.

"Man, that feels so much better," he shouted. He had opened the bathroom door a crack. "But there’s no towels. Could you find me something to dry myself with?" I discreetly handed him the bedspread from the large double bed to dry and wrap himself in, and then we ordered a pizza. It came with a complimentary two-liter bottle of orange pop, and we feasted and watched movies on TV. We went to sleep around 3 A.M., Martin still wrapped in the bedspread, me in tee-shirt and underwear. It felt great. We were men.

I opened my eyes. The room was light. I happened to be staring at the clock-radio: 10:44. I thought if I just didn’t move, there would be no problem. Or maybe there wasn’t a problem, but if I stayed perfectly still I wouldn’t have to find out. I closed my eyes again. I could hear Martin breathing deeply, almost a snore. I waited. I fooled myself for as long as I could, then, still on my stomach, I pulled myself up a little and immediately felt the clammy coldness of my underwear and tee-shirt, which I discovered was wet right to my neck. I felt wetness on my thighs and knees. I noticed my pillowcase was wet along the edge under the pillow. Also, in moving I released a fair amount of that familiar, unmistakable odor. Damn! Disaster! This must’ve been a two-alarmer. I mean I most likely wet more than once. I suspected I often did.

I thought I better warn Martin. I reached under the covers to find his shoulder or arm, and was surprised that the wetness was not restricted to a large oval around me, but extended all the way to where he was sleeping. I didn’t do all that!

"Martin! Martin! Wake up, it’s morning!" He stirred.

"Good morning," he mumbled. Then his eyes opened wide. "OH, NO!" He was still wrapped in the bedspread, and squirmed around, checking. "OH NO! You’re not going to believe this, John!"

"No, you’re not going to believe it."

"I wet the bed!"

"We both wet the bed!" I was disappointed, and a little scared. What a mess! "It’s all your fault, you dumb enuresis-freak!" I said. I didn’t want him to feel bad. "Why’d you let me drink all that pop? Think of the caffiene!" I bonked him with my pillow, and he bonked me back.

"What’ll we do? We can’t run away, I have no clothes," said Martin.

"Whaddya mean we? Look, I was going to the laundromat anyway. I’ll just do a bigger load. We’ll open the window and let the mattress dry. It’ll be ok. Good as new. Better, even." It would have been wrong to just leave such a mess. Besides, being new at such things, I had naively put my real name and address on the registration card. I didn’t want my mom to get a bill. We had to disguise what we’d done.

I took a fast, limited shower, ‘toweled’ my self using scarce dry bits of my tee-shirt, then got dressed, adding my peed underwear and shirt to Martin’s things in the plastic bag. I had brought one spare tee-shirt, but no underwear. Good planning. Martin was anxious to have a shower, so I told him I would get everything together and get to the laundromat. Then we would fix up the room, get something to eat, sightsee, and be on the bus on schedule. More or less. I stripped the wet sheets and blankets from the bed. Martin’s pillowcase was also damp, so both his and mine went into the pile. The fabric mattress-cover was also very wet so I added that, noticing plenty of urine had soaked through into the mattress itself, which could take days to dry by the look of it. We couldn’t help that. Also the room had become quite smelly. Well we weren’t expecting visitors, but bedwetters have a strong instinct to conceal, conceal, conceal, and this made me nervous. We had to leave the mattress in the open, which meant so were we.

I dropped the plastic clothes-bag into the pile and made a big bundle. Something was missing. The bedspread. I quietly retrieved it from the bathroom while Martin showered, and used it to wrap my bundle, tying its four corners into a neat carrying handle. I left, checking that the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was still on the outside handle. The laundromat was only half a block away. It then occurred to me that Martin had been left with absolutely nothing to dry himself, and absolutely nothing to wear. Darn! I better call him. And when was check-out time again?

After sighing in relief that the place was even open on a Sunday, I crammed a few machines and then went to the pay phone and called 411. I told the operator the place was called the Shady Something Motel.

"Sir, do you know how many ‘shady’ motels there are in Calgary?" We finally worked it out. I eventually got through to room 207. A shaky-voiced Martin answered after a whole bunch of rings. "Uh, hullo?" He was whispering.

"Martin, it’s me. Sorry you have nothing to wear. I didn’t realize. What’s check-out time?"

"I can’t see. I’m afraid to go near the door. Somebody tried to come in. Maybe the maid. She was yelling in Spanish. I tried to yell back at her from the bathroom."

"Okay I have an idea. See the curtains? Not at the front of the room, but on the side. I think they have guns on them, and cowboy hats and boots."

"Ok...man it stinks in here."

"Take the curtains down and you can wear them like a toga or something. No harm in that. Even dry yourself off a bit, no one’ll notice. Check the card on the door, and I’ll call you back."

The machines spun, and I willed them to go faster. But other wheels were also in motion. I called Martin back. Thanks to his concealing cowboy toga, he was able to creep to the door and tell me that with a bit of luck and a small grace period, we might make it. But he was nervous. He had heard voices outside, suspicious ones, he said. I finally repacked a now clean and warm bundle, added a couple of towels and a baby’s plastic crib sheet from the ‘unclaimed’ box (to ingeniously cover up the wet spot on the mattress) and arrived back at the Shady Lane Motel just in time to see a shaky Martin in a ridiculous cowboy toga open the door to two large police officers. His clever use of curtain hooks prevented any indiscreet flapping of the unusual garment. Smart boy, my friend!

Apparently I had been spotted leaving the motel property with what looked suspiciously like motel property. A chambermaid disguised as a Hispanic chambermaid had been sent to 207 to investigate. More suspicion ensued. Police had been called, and a discreet peek through a bare side window had revealed not only that ‘things’ seemed to be missing, but also a boy who seemed to be wearing nothing but tacky cowboy curtains. And what was that large stain on the mattress? We had a lot of explaining to do.

"I’m afraid it’s...well it’s urine, sir," I admitted. There was no dispute about that. The smell! Not about to desert my friend at this possible slight turn for the worse, I had explained who I was (sort of), that no theft had taken place, that there might even have been some improvement to some motel items, if not all. "You see poor Bobby here...well, to be honest, both Bobby and me, I mean Bobby and I, well, we have a slight bedwetting problem, and it happened last night. To both of us. Very embarrassing. Darn pop. Big mess! Really, sir we know better. We just wanted to clean up. That’s all!"

"So you’re Bobby..." the officer said to Martin.

"Um, Dean. Bobby Dean. Robert Dean, that’s me." This wasn’t going to work.

"And you are John Robb?"

"John Rob. Two ‘b’s. John B. Robb Jr., in fact. Quite a mouthful, ha, ha!" I was doing it too. We had absolutely no experience conning the police. We were mere runaways. I couldn’t help thinking it was kind of obvious we weren’t on our way to an important deep-thinkers’ convention.

"So why’s Bobby here wearing the curtains?"

"Well you see it’s a long story. He sort of fell asleep in his clothes on the bus and wet, then we sort of wet the bed, then there were no towels, and everything else was kind of...wet." Too late I thought I could at least have left out the saturated Greyhound.

"And smelly."

"Very smelly," Bobby-Martin Dean offered. "Very very smelly."

"Just like your story." Darn! I knew it wouldn’t work. "We’ll continue this talk downtown."

At least they let Martin get properly dressed first, and then I was allowed to put on my underwear, with a cop outside the bathroom door listening for signs of possible escape. (See how soon you go from ‘police officer’ to ‘cop’ when you find yourself on the other side of the law.) At the cop station they didn’t even bother to separate us, and our ‘story’ still crumbled within the first fifteen seconds.

"So what’s the ‘B’ stand for, John?"

"Um, the ‘B’?"

"In your name."

"Um, Bob." I was nervous. It was all I could think of, what can I say?

"So this is Bobby Dean, and you are John Bob Robb Jr., is that right?

"Yes. Very unusual. My Granddad must’ve been from the South. Did I mention he was a war-hero?"

They told us it might even be a record. We told them everything they wanted to know, and they seemed satisfied that no crime had been committed. It was a great consolation to learn that we wouldn’t be charged with felony-bedwetting.

"Now you’re not being charged with anything," Officer Monk said, "but you are minors, you are runaways, missing person reports have now been filed. We’re going to have to do some more checking, talk to your folks, and arrange escorted transport back to Vancouver. All this takes time, and as you’re both considered a high risk for flight, you’ll be held at YDC. Could take a few days."

"What’s a YDC?" naive Martin asked. I think he was relieved not to be Bobby anymore, and I was happy not to be J. Bob Robb. All that lying and deception when you’re not used to it can wear you out.

"Youth Detention Center. Don’t worry, they’ll treat you good." Well who was lying now?

After a polite goodbye from our arresting officers, we were escorted to the place in the back of a police car. Our sightseeing in Calgary was limited to what we could see during a short five-minute drive from the copshop to YDC. Not much. From the outside, the building looked like a modern jail. A squat two stories spread out over half a block, red brick, narrow escape-proof windows, imposing solid-looking steel doors. In some places fences surrounded a main wall on three sides, with razor-wire along the top. We were nervous.

"What do you think?" Martin asked. I think he was trying to gauge how scared I was.

"Not good," I said. "Let’s be careful."

We were led up to a main entrance, and as we got there a buzzer sounded, and the cop opened the door. He was carrying a binder. Our case files. Inside the room was a protected office with an upper wall of thick plexiglass. From inside, our guide was directed to a solid side door which buzzed as we approached. The door slammed behind us, and now we were in a more normal looking office with a counter and a guy waiting behind it. A gloomy, oppressive feeling began to take hold, or maybe take over. The cop handed our files to the official, who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

"Ah," he said, looking over the files. "The famous runaway bedwetters. Thank you Officer. We’ll take it from here."

"Have a nice day," he said, maybe to all of us, and left with a slam.

"Okay, you follow a few simple rules, you should be ok," the guy said. He wasn’t going to introduce himself. Ok. Should be ok?

"No swearing, no fighting, no smoking, no drugs, of course. No talking after lights out. You don’t talk back to staff. You do what you’re told, when you’re told. Got it?"

"Got it." He gave us a look. I guess he liked to be called ‘sir’. Too bad. He pressed a button.

"Stay standing." In case we putt lice in the furniture.

A ‘staff’ (they didn’t like to be called guards) came to escort us to Unit 6, which would be our temporary Alberta home. His name was Gil, and he looked mean and sly. He looked like he knew ways to hurt you. Indeed de-lousing is the first step in these places, and once on the unit we were ushered into the washroom which had open showers on two sides, a row of toilet stalls along a third (no doors), and frosted windows along the fourth. In the middle was an island containing two rows of sinks with mirrors.

"Take your clothes off, leave them on the floor, and wait. And no talking." He was also in his twenties, and casually dressed. He left.

"What do you think so far?" I asked Martin. We were nervously, shyly getting our clothes off.

"Well, I’m not crazy about the ambience overall, and the bad acoustics are already starting to get on my nerves And am I mistaken, or is that a diaper-pail in the corner?" Oh, no! It was!

"Listen, we have to be careful," I whispered. I’d read about places like this. Anything can happen. The guy came back with shampoo and a couple of towels. Towels! We were instructed to stand under two adjacent showers after he turned on and adjusted the water. Then he squirted a bit of bug shampoo onto our heads and instructed us to lather vigorously and rinse. The stuff smelled. Both of us were very modest in front of others (and each other), and this was painful and awkward and dehumanizing, but that’s what these places do without even trying. He handed us each a towel, we dried off, wrapped the towels around us, and followed him down the hallway to the dormitory.

There were two rows of seven beds each along facing walls. There were no dividers for privacy between the beds. Each numbered ‘sleep station’ consisted of small single bed, small dresser with toiletries bag on top, towel rack with towel and face cloth. No reading lamp, no clock, nothing personal. When we got to our beds, 13 and 14, (‘I want 14,’ I imagined myself saying. ‘No I called it first,’ Martin said. ‘Sir, did you happen to know that Martin here is a bedwetter?’) at first I was shocked to see that the unmade mattresses were covered by thick translucent plastic covers. But then I noticed that another unmade one further down the row also had one, and one or two badly made beds suggested that they probably all did for government-mandated hygienic purposes. I felt a little better. We were all in the same boat. On each of our beds had been laid out a standard inmate uniform consisting of blue pants and a matching blue tunic, a pair of boxer shorts, and a pair of soft-soled slippers.

"Put those on," said Gil. A man of few words. We did as we were told as our guard stood by impassively. The uniforms fit ok, they weren’t even that ugly. But they still identified who you were. Nothing was said about Martin’s watch, which surprised me. I guessed watches were allowed. They showed you how slowly time passes in a place like this.

We were urged out of the dorm, and Gil locked the door behind us. It had a narrow plexiglass window in it, all scratched and distorted from the inside. We passed the washrooms, the entrance where we had first come in, then a dining area about the size of the dorm. We would learn that main meals were prepared in a central kitchen and delivered to units (sometimes much later) in steam-boxes that left most food soggy and tasteless. On the right was a small infirmary with an examination table and a couple of beds, and straight ahead was the main living area.

We entered, and were met by eleven sets of staring eyes from various locations. The kids were all dressed like us, and seemed to vary in age from about eighteen right down to one skinny kid who appeared about twelve. A TV was belching cartoons for some of them, while others played Ping-Pong (I had expected to see the proverbial pool-table, but there was none. Weapons! Weapons! Any furniture not secured to the floor was made of foam). Some played card or board games, and there was a noisy Nintendo playstation in one corner. Others just sat around. The group seemed to represent an ethnic cross-section of society. There were two Native Indians, an East Indian, a kid who looked Asian, one who was Black. The rest were White, but almost all had that tight look that comes of material and emotional deprivation, of being kicked around a little too much. You wanted to watch yourself.

At the far end of the room was the office. It had a secure door and plexiglass windows, and was strictly off-limits to inmates. The stereo and TV were controlled from there, the kids constantly watched. Also included in this area were three small tile-floored bare cells with solid-steel doors (with a tiny window the only access to outside, and that could be papered over from the office side) where inmates could be kept in only their underwear for days for the slightest infraction, real or imagined. ‘Gil’ disappeared inside the office.

Martin and I sat nervously on covered foam chairs. The whole place had an aura of neglect and decrepitude. The carpet was threadbare and torn and stained, the walls were drab institutional greens with narrow windows that hardly admitted light, the furniture, such as it was, was in shoddy condition, and the whole place smelled. The overall effect was one of oppression and claustrophobia, and I had a bad feeling. I wanted to be out of there.

"What you guys in for?" It was the Hispanic guy. We learned his name was Garcia.

"Nothing. We just ran away. Got caught," Martin said.

"That’s not what I heard." There was slight menace in the voice. He looked around seventeen, lean, lithe, strong, mean. Kids were taking an interest. Someone else approached.

"I’m Patrick. I stabbed a guy. See him? That’s Dwayne. Conked his dad with a baseball bat. Deep coma. See little Roy over there? He’s twelve. Burnt down his school. We all done bad things, been here a long time, gonna stay a long time. We heard you guys are here...cause you wet your bed!" Intense derisive laughter erupted, causing the staff member who was with Gil in the office to look up. Rule number one in detention: There are no secrets. There is no such thing as confidentiality. There is no privacy. There is no expectation of decency.

"See, we don’t like bedwetters," Garcia said. "We don’t like associating with babies. You guys always get sent to Unit 6, and we all get a bad name, not to mention the smell. Other units make fun of us cause of guys like you. Not to our face, though. Roy here, he’s a bedwetter, but he’s just a kid. He lights fires, that’s cool. You guys could pee ‘em out!" More laughter. "That’s ok. We got ways to deal wit you." It seemed that for practical reasons wetters were assigned to the same unit. That was not its primary function of course, and at any given time it might house only one or two or a few at most. But because of the policy, all other units were ‘dry’. So it was easy to pick on 6, which was known as ‘Enuresix’, amongst other things. Naturally this did not go over well with unit members who didn’t wet, and who were just trying to get by in a tough environment.

But this was my worst fear. To be exposed as a helpless bedwetter amongst a group of tough kids whose pride is contingent on never showing or admitting to weakness of any sort! Well enuresis happens to be the greatest weakness known to Boy! In surveys schoolkids have been asked to name the greatest humiliation which could befall them; the most common answer? ‘Wetting my pants in class’! Now we’d be sleeping with the ‘class’ and they all know beforehand that you’ll wet your bed! This was turning out to be an overall adventure not quite as excellent as I had originally hoped. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help wondering about Roy. He looked like a sweet kid. Was there a correlation between fire-starting and bedwetting, or was that merely a myth perpetrated by authorities to discourage firebugs? I personally have no special attraction for matches or Bic lighters; the one time I got carried away involved lighting and smoking cigarette after cigarette with Martin, and we ended up puking for hours.

During supper (pork chops, mashed potatoes, soggy cabbage) Martin and I sat with Roy, and got to know him a little. We ignored jokes and comments about bedwetters sticking (and stinking) together. It was hard to tell if any of it bothered him or not. He was 12 ½, and had already set too many fires to count, including his school and a BMW belonging to one of his mother’s many boyfriends. Apparently his mom was something of a boozer and druggie, and in spite of extravagant promises, more or less always forgot about him. His older sister had long since disappeared to the streets of downtown Calgary. Same old story. He was fascinated by Martin’s watch (maybe ‘cause it can glow), and it didn’t surprise me when Martin took it off and handed to the kid. That’s Martin.

"You can borrow it. Put it on."

"Really? For how long?"

"For as long as we’re here. I don’t really need to know the time in this dump."

Roy said had never worn a watch before.

Something was bothering me, and I had to get it off my mind one way or another. Since our ‘secret’ was out, I had a curious feeling almost of being stared at with no clothes on. I felt exposed, afraid, but there was something else. Almost as if these kids knew something they weren’t saying. Something bad.

"Roy, can I ask you something?" I kept my voice low. "In this place, um, if you wet your bed, do they make you wear diapers?" There. I asked. He nodded his head yes. I thought so when I saw the diaper pail in the washroom. Darn!

"The kids go for their showers at 8. We go to the infirmary for diapers. Usually the staff has another staff or a kid for a witness so you can’t say he abused you. We get our shower in the morning."

"That’s at 8 P.M.? What time is lights out?"

"9:15. We’re locked in the dorm at 9. It’s kinda bad ‘cause our pants won’t fit over the diapers, and they don’t give us pj’s here." That’s what I was afraid of. That explained the ‘Just you wait and see’ sneers.

After supper we spent another grueling hour in the noisy living area. Martin and I tried our best to keep our heads down, but comments came our way regardless. We were getting more and more nervous.

"Hey babies, it’s almost D-Hour!"

"At least you guys will be company for Baby Roy."

Gil and the other staff came out of the office. "Ok boys, time to hit the showers. No funny stuff—Ross will be supervising. Bedwetters come with me. Oh and Caesar Garcia, will you give me a hand?" Boys sniggered openly at our pathetic parade to the infirmary to be diapered like infants.

"Ok Roy the boy, you’re first. You two—pants and underwear off. He went to a closet and took out a box, placing it on a table. He took out three thick diapers and three thick liners, and put those on the table. As we sheepishly undressed, Garcia grinned at us.

"Don’t worry, we’re gonna keep you dry tonight. Outside, anyway."

Gil put an insert inside a diaper and placed both on the exam couch. The diapers and inserts were clean, but looked old and well used. Frayed. He sprinkled powder on the diaper. I was in a stupor, but was still surprised they’d bother to use baby powder in a place like this. It had a very strong, almost bitter smell, and I wondered if maybe it was some kind of product designed for institutions, maybe to lessen the smell of urine. Roy climbed up on the table, and Gil positioned him on the diaper, then pulled it up between his skinny legs. He fastened either side with a diaper clip, as I suppose pins could be used as weapons. Then Gil took some plastic pants from the box and helped Roy push his feet through the openings. Then he pulled them up. The pants were made of a thick but pliable plastic, like that of the sheets on our beds. They were very generously cut, wide in the crotch and reached well past the belly-button. Again I thought ‘institution’. Roy was ready. He just seemed resigned. He climbed down, and I noticed his pants made a lot of noise. And you could see his diapers through them, and the clips. I hated that.

"When I started here I never thought I’d be changing diapers on 12 and 15 year olds, I can tell you that!" Gil said.

"I can do these two," Caesar Garcia offered.

"Sure."

"You!" he ordered me. "Up on the table!" It was happening again. Here I was, naked from the waist down, helpless, inevitably destined for diapers, but I couldn’t move. I knew it would be best to get it over with, but it was like the panic you can feel when a teacher calls on you and you freeze. My body felt frozen, and my mind was stuck in slow motion. I could see the concerned and scared look on Martin’s face. But I could not move.

"Bedwetter Club Initiation?"

‘Ok. But do this guy first."

"You!" he said. "On the table." Martin complied. It was still slow motion. Gil’s little crony got a diaper ready, slipped it under Martin, who seemed to be in depressed shock, used the smelly powder, used clips, put plastic pants on him.

"Well at least when I have kids of my own, I’ll know what to do," said Garcia. "Ok, you two babies go and tell Sol and Jared that I want them. Then you come back." He meant Martin. I felt sorry for Martin, forced to go off in his diapers to be ridiculed by the other kids. The boys made noise as they walked. "You stand here and wait." He meant me. "Do you know what’s going to happen now?" I didn’t answer. I had my back to him. He must have reached into the box and retrieved a flexible rubber strap that was there. He hit me hard on the butt with it. "That’s what!" He hit me again, and it stung like mad.

"I can’t be here for this. Call me when it’s over, and don’t go crazy," Gil said.

The second slap snapped me back to reality, and I thought I knew what was happening here. I was very scared. Canada has a long history of abuse of kids in detention facilities, and a lot of lawsuits to prove it. One method of abuse, supposedly stopped in the ‘60’s, was to ‘spank’ inmates for various infractions such as fighting, talking back to staff, you name it. Show ‘em who’s boss! I could imagine the sheer arbitrariness of the punishments, which were in fact often meted out solely for the perverted pleasure of the guards or warden. A boy would be stripped naked from the waist down (I could imagine the loneliness of it, the sense of utter abandonment to brutality), and bound wrists and feet in a tight bending position over a table. His shirt would be pulled over his head to prevent his seeing who actually delivered the beating, and then he would be ‘spanked’ with a strap or wooden paddle. As if more cruelty were needed, usually the boy would not be informed as to how many strokes he would receive, and be left to try as he might not to cry out (as pride required) or more likely to wail and beg for mercy which rarely was granted. As often as not the kid ended up in the infirmary or hospital, sometimes for weeks. The barbaric practice was officially outlawed as such in the 60’s, but I realized that these are dark places, immune to scrutiny, where anything can happen. The guards didn’t spank kids anymore. Now they used proxies. It was an ‘initiation’. Boys being boys. Or: What were those welts on Johnny’s butt? The kid’s a bedwetter—he gets diaper rash.

"Do up his ankles." Acutely aware of my lower body nakedness, I stared straight ahead as I felt a hand grab my ankle and force it to the left. I looked down to see that there was a leather cuff attached to the bottom of the examination table. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. You wouldn’t. There was another one three feet to the right. Sal or Jared put my left ankle in the cuff and did it up as you would a belt. Then he did the right one. Of course I had been spanked before, but I had never in my life been bound in any way. I was just made to cooperate on threat of prolonging the spanking, and I naively wondered why it was different now.

"Stretch him across."

The kid who hadn’t done my ankles now came to the opposite side of the exam table and pulled me down so that my stomach touched the cold soft surface of the table. Leather cuffs attached to straps lay on the floor and were fastened to the bottom of the table, and one by one he attached them to my wrists, then adjusted the straps so tight I couldn’t move an inch. My head was actually lower than the level of the table, and I was very aware of my butt being in the air. I heard the sound of plastic pants and realized it must be Martin returning. I was sorry he had to see me like this.

"Hey you. Diaperboy. Go tell the kids to come and see." I heard Martin leave again. I felt the cool rubber strap touch me. He was playing with me. It was always awful waiting to be spanked, but never worse than this. Fear and humiliation got to me, and I began to cry. "That’s ok, crybaby. In a minute you’ll have something to really cry about." I heard the room filling up. One of the kids asked Martin if he had already been spanked.

"Maybe tomorrow," Caesar said. With the first stroke I knew why they tied you down. Otherwise you’d run away, you’d fight, you’d do anything to avoid that strap. I struggled, but I just couldn’t move. I thought of brave kids who just kept quiet, but I couldn’t. I cried out and bawled like crazy. I lost count of how many times he hit me. I thought I was going to faint. I wished I would. Martin later told me I got fifteen strokes. The room was pretty quiet except for me and the sound of the strap on my butt. Then it was over, and I was eventually released, still crying.

"Show’s over," someone said. Not quite.

"Wait, I want you to see him get his diapers on," Caesar said. "I think he’ll cooperate this time. But if not..." I did, even with everyone watching and making comments about what a ‘baby’ I was. Then I was ‘free’ to go. Back in the lounge I tried sitting, but it was impossible because my bum was so sore. Gil was amused by my quickly getting to my feet.

"Successful initiation, Mr. Garcia?"

"Totally, sir! He won’t be sitting for awhile."

I had to stand up. Martin stood with me. (Roy sat quietly watching TV.) We walked around the room in nothing but our inmate tunics and diapers clearly visible through our noisy plastic pants, objects of ridicule and mockery the whole time. We were almost glad to be locked into the dorm. There was one incident in which a kid claimed he was going to put Martin over his knee and spank him on his diapers, but nothing came of it. I would have punched him if he tried.

I woke up with a stinging butt not knowing where I was, and then it all came flooding back. Detention, spanking, diapers. Oh no! I think the strap must’ve broken my skin in places, and when I wet the urine got in the cuts and was burning. I had to lay on my stomach, and was facing Martin. I could see, because they left a light burning all night so that the security camera mounted on the wall could pick up any movement. His eyes opened.

"What are you doing hanging around with these idiots, you big baby?" I said.

"I’m freakin’ wet," he said.

"Me too," I answered. "And it’s killing me." We talked all the rest of the night, then fell asleep just as it was getting light. A rude bell went off, and a staff member unlocked the door and entered the dorm. "Everybody up!" He ordered. I was reluctant to get up because of the wet diapers. Martin too. But we couldn’t risk the ire of this new staff person, so we got to our feet. My butt was still very sore. I could see yellow through Martin’s plastic pants, and I was sure I showed yellow too. We had slept in our jail shirts, which did little to hide the diapers.

"You stink." It was Charlie, an Indian guy. He was here with Bobby, his younger brother. Apparently a group-home worker had slapped Bobby in the face, and the boys had ripped the house apart—walls, ceilings, plumbing, carpets, appliances—trashed. Then they cut her brake lines, and she ended up in hospital.

"You guys sure stink." He was right. Between us we emitted a powerful odor. So the powder wasn’t for that. Maybe it was just used as part of the humiliating diapering process. Or to prevent diaper rash.

"Hey guys, Baby Roy wet his diapers again!" someone said from the other end of the room. Roy was quietly staring at the floor.

"These guys too," Charlie announced.

"Ok boys, hit the washroom and get ready for breakfast," the staff member ordered. "Babies, wait here." Once again we were the subject of taunts and jibes as boys dressed, grabbed their toiletry kits and headed out.

"How’s your wet butt this morning?" Caesar asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. He spanked me lightly on my plastic pants, to laughter.

"It hurts," I answered truthfully.

"Next time I’ll give you more," he said. He was showing off, but I believed him.

Once the boys went to breakfast, we were instructed to go and shower. We were told to deposit wet diapers, plastic pants, and diaper clips in the diaper pail in the washroom, and that we could pick up our pants and underwear from the infirmary later. We set out with towels and toiletry kits to do as we were told. As the three of us walked down the hallway in our ridiculous wet diapers, hoping not to meet anyone, I plotted escape.

"I’m sure we could find some way to bust out of here," I said to Martin.

"Why? I love it here. I’m going to ask if I can stay forever!" This was Martin’s sick sense of humor. Then, as if we were on our way to the hot-tub in some resort, he flicked his towel at me. I twisted out of the way, and the towel hit the wall—right on top of a fire-alarm handle. The towel was old and frayed, and a thread must’ve got caught on the handle, which was missing its little glass barrier. The alarm started ringing. I instinctively put the handle back, but it kept on ringing. Staff came running.

"Out of the building!"

"But we have no pants...It’s a mistake!"

"Now!"

We were directed out a side door into a large fenced yard which was already filling up with kids who were streaming out of several doors. The center had six units. If there were fourteen beds in the others as there was in ours, that made a potential total of almost 90 kids to stare and make fun of us in our shameful wet diapers. Martin had lost his towel, but Roy and I still had ours to try and hide behind. They weren’t very big, and it was obvious what all three of us were wearing. We tried to stick to the far end of the yard away from the main crowd, but soon we were surrounded by laughing, jeering boys, making the odd familiar Unit six face seem almost friendly by comparison. Our towels were roughly snatched away. I hoped we wouldn’t get beaten up, but staff members seemed to be keeping some order.

"Look guys—it’s the boys of Unit Enuresix!"

"Look—you can even tell their diapers are wet!" I didn’t know about the others, but I had wet mine again out of pure fear and embarrassment. Someone started a chant, which was picked up: "Ba-bee! Ba-bee! Ba-bee!" We had to stand there and just take it while staring hard at the ground. We had tears in our eyes. A sidewalk ran down one side of the fence, and a mom with two kids passed by. The kids looked about eight and ten. The older one looked at me, puzzled.

"Mom, how come those boys are wearing diapers?"

"I don’t know, Christopher. Maybe they’re retarded children," she suggested. "Don’t stare." This brought renewed laughter from those in earshot.

"They’re not retarded, Christopher," a kid from another unit said. "They’re just bedwetters from Unit Enuresix!"

Finally a false alarm was declared and we were able to go and get cleaned up. The incident did not endear us to our peers on the unit (who at least never knew who pulled the alarm), and I feared that their anger and hurt pride at being lumped in with bedwetters and laughed at could turn out badly for us. Above all I feared another spanking. In the meantime it felt really good to be wearing underwear and pants again. I felt almost like a ‘big boy’.

The three of us stuck together and tried to keep out of everyone’s way as the stiflingly boring day went by, so it took awhile to realize that our fellow inmates had developed a strategy to use against us (if Roy hadn’t chosen to hang with us, he probably would’ve been excepted; it was impossible not to like him). They would shun us. No talking, no sharing, no passing the salt at lunch. We were officially beneath their contempt, not even worthy of their insults. If you looked at someone, he’d turn his back. If you asked a question, it went unanswered. A door might be shut in your face as if you didn’t exist. All this suited me fine.

That evening we were sent by Gil to the infirmary to undress and wait to be diapered. To my surprise, when he showed up he was assisted by a young staff-in-training (‘Gary’ seemed to be about nineteen) who actually did the diapering; Roy, then Martin, then a very cooperative if embarrassed myself. The strap was nowhere to be seen, although seeing my marked butt Gary asked if I had been spanked.

"Of course not," Gil said. "You know we’re not allowed to spank. Besides, why would we need to? Look how compliant he is!" They laughed.

Even if they weren’t speaking to us, it was still hard being in diapers in front of the other boys, and their looks of derision spoke volumes and made us feel ashamed. I was happy to finally be able to ‘hide’ in my bed, and in the morning all three of us were wet again. We were regarded with the same quiet ridicule, and I realized it was effective—I almost felt like I deserved to be in diapers, to be spanked. I felt like apologizing. I felt more infantile than I ever had.

Later that day we were informed that we were to be escorted home. We would be flying to Vancouver with a guy from the sheriff’s department and be turned over to RCMP at Vancouver airport and then be driven to our homes. There was just one little catch. Before changing into our own clothing, Gary informed us that because of our wetting history (it was all on file!) the sheriff’s department had requested that we be put in diapers for the trip. So instead of our underwear, which went into our backpacks, we were put in size small Attends disposable diapers. It was only my second time wearing a disposable diaper during the day, and Martin never had. We were terrified that everyone would know—the noise they made was certainly awesome. Just before we were due to be picked up, we crinkled into the lounge to say goodbye to Roy. He seemed sorry to see us go.

"Don’t worry, once we’re gone, they’ll be nice to you," I said.

"We’ll miss you," Martin said.

"Here’s your watch back. Thanks a lot," Roy said, unbuckling the Timex.

"Nope. You keep that," Martin said. "I want you to have it. But do me a favor. No more fires, ok?"

"Ok. I’m out of matches anyway." We laughed, shook hands, promised to write.

‘Steve’ from the sheriff’s department arrived.

"These guys are in Pampers, right?"

In spite of that, we enjoyed our flight, and arrived at the airport to a band and lots of balloons. That they were for someone else didn’t really matter. Soon we were re-united with our so-called loved ones. I found that the paddle still hurt, but nothing like that strap. It’s all relative.