I met Kenny in college. We both worked at the same greasy spoon near the campus, and we started our
relationship just talking about this and that during our breaks. It turned out that we liked the same kinds of
things, so we hit it off really well.
We started dating: going to movies, shows, bars–the usual stuff, really. He was a sensitive, sweet man, and
I really liked that, after some of the macho weirdos I had dated in the past. Kenny was different. He had a
good sense of humor, he was easy to talk to, and he always seemed to want to do whatever I wanted to do.
And there was something else: he didn’t seem to think that it was his right to have sex with me just because
we were dating. I mean I like sex, but it was nice to meet a guy who seemed to want to take it more slowly.
About five months after we had started dating, Kenny and I went to see a rock concert at the stadium. It
was a long night, and we had a lot of beer, and when we got back to my place, Kenny was practically
passing out. He could hardly make it up the stairs. There was no way he could make it home. The couch in
the living room was out of the question; my roommates didn’t really know Kenny very well, and they were
early risers who would have gone berserk if they had stumbed into the room in the morning and found a
sleeping man lying there. So I pulled him gently into my bed, pulled off most of his clothes, and lay down
next to him to sleep.
In the morning, I was the first one awake. I wasn’t surprised; Kenny had been so wiped out the night before,
I thought he might sleep all week. I rolled over to put my arm around him and kiss him awake, but I was
stopped dead by the realization that the bed beneath him was soaking wet! At first, I thought that he had
been sweating badly, but it really wasn’t that hot, and I quickly determined that my sweet sensitive guy had
wet the bed–and in my bed, no less.
I must have snapped something at him, because Kenny suddenly woke up, and just as suddenly, realizing
what had occurred, was begging my forgiveness. I’m sure I was very confused–you don’t expect a twenty-
year-old guy to be a bedwetter–and I was a bit upset about it, but mostly I think I was amused: I mean, talk
about a guy not being able to hold his beer!
But as Kenny and I talked, it became very clear that it was not only the beer. Through an extremely red
face, between sobs, he explained that he had had this problem since junior high school. The doctors said it
was some psychological reaction to his parents’ divorce, or some such thing, and they could never find
anything wrong physically, but he had begun wetting at night, after years of being dry. At first, it was once
or twice a week; later it sometimes was every night. There was no pattern or reason that he knew of; it
seemed to ebb and flow. In the worst of times, he even had accidents during the day.
I sat there, stunned and quiet. I liked Kenny, more than any other guy I had been with, and through the
months we had been together I was feeling happier than I had felt in years. And all this time he had been
hiding this horrible secret. I didn’t know quite how to react.
He sat on the edge of my damp bed, tears filling his eyes. He admitted that he had wanted to tell me, that he
had even wanted to sleep with me, but he had not had the nerve to do either. He was still a virgin, afraid of
the way a girl might react to the very discovery that I had made. I weighed my options.
“Are you wetting every night now?” I asked.
He shook his head “no” slowly, and explained that it was only once in a while right now. He said it as if he
was wondering whether I’d kick him out the door. I had been sitting opposite him on a chair, listening to his
story. Looking into his sad, frightened eyes, I knew that I loved him, although I wasn’t really sure what I
was supposed to do now. He put his head down, and the tears started again. Moving gently to his side, I
cuddled him in my arms and kissed him. He seemed almost…grateful. We embraced and kissed some more.
Wordlessly, I removed his wet underwear and dried him off with the shirt I had taken off of him the night
before; as I wiped his groin with the shirt, I couldn’t help noticing that he was getting excited. I pushed him
onto the dry side of the bed. We lay down together, and Kenny was not a virgin much longer.
All that day, Kenny and I talked. I said I thought I could handle his problem if it was only once in a while,
so he shouldn’t be afraid to come over at night. And with his smile, our relationship changed; suddenly
Kenny and I were lovers. Soon, we had moved out of the apartments we were sharing with other friends,
and into a new one together.
I kind of hoped that a real relationship might wipe out whatever psychological problems were causing
Kenny’s bedwetting. But it didn’t go away. In fact, it started getting worse. When we had been sleeping
together for a couple of months, he was waking up wet as many as four or five nights a week. And the
laundry was a real hassle. It wasn’t cheap, and the laundromat was two blocks down the road. And winter
was coming. Kenny was not very good at remembering to bring the laundry down after his morning classes,
and I found myself stuck with it more and more often. I also found myself losing patience with my lover.
Don’t get me wrong: Kenny was great. In every other respect, he was the best guy I had ever known. He
really was all of the things he had seemed when I first started seeing him, and maybe even more. And I
began to hate the fact that I was letting his little problem interfere with my feelings for him. And it was in
fact getting worse; he even had a few accidents during the day, just as he said he had in high school. About
that time, I guess I started taking out my inner frustrations on him. I started chiding him, asking if he was
ever going to get toilet trained, wondering aloud what his male friends would think if I told them. Then, one
day, I snapped.
It was winter, and the walk to the laundry was a pain in the butt. Kenny hated it too, and we would
sometimes wait until there were no clean sheets in the house before bringing the wet ones over. Late one
evening, on a night when we were down to our last bedsheets, I came home from a night class and found
Kenny asleep in the bed, soaked. I flipped out. I yelled at him: the laundromat was closed, it was ten
o’clock, the bed was wet, and we had no sheets! I told him I was sick and tired of living with such a big
baby! He cried as I said that I ought to put him in diapers like every other baby on earth. Then I left the
apartment, saying that I would sleep at a friend’s house, and telling him that the sheets had better be cleaned
when I got back tomorrow. He begged me not to go, and then he pleaded with me not to tell anyone why I
“Why not?” I yelled back. " Maybe our friends would be interested in knowing what a big baby you are!"
I walked out into the night, leaving him standing there, wet and crying, wondering if I would tell anyone the
I didn’t tell anyone. I made up some story about having a fight with him over money, and my former
roomies took me in for the night. I told them I really didn’t want to talk, and they left me alone. But I did a
lot of thinking. I knew what kind of person Kenny was, and I was beginning to understand what he needed.
The more I thought about it, the more I knew I was right. I only hoped I could go through with it.
The next day, when Kenny came home from class (to a bed he had made fresh that morning with clean
sheets), I was waiting for him. I smiled at him and said I was sorry for losing my temper last night. I told
him I had skipped my classes and gone out shopping and I had a few surprises for him. I told him to go into
the bedroom and take off his clothes, and, happy to have me back and in a good mood, he cheerfully obeyed.
When he was naked and lying on the bed, I came in. I was not naked, and he seemed surprised.
“No, Kenny,” I said. “We’re not making love this afternoon. There are some things that have to change
around here, and they are going to change right now.”
He was genuinely confused. I walked over next to him, reached down, and pulled one of the adult-sized
diapers I had bought that afternoon from beneath the bed. Before he could say a word, I cut him off.
“This is how it’s going to be, Kenny. I can’t stand the wet beds any more, but I do like you. The truth is I
like you better than I can even say. But I swear I’ll walk right through that door and never come back if you
don’t do exactly what I say.”
He didn’t say anything. Standing there with the diaper in my hand, I continued.
“These are for you. You are clearly not ready for big boy underwear, so you should not be wearing it. You
are a big baby, and babies wear diapers. I am sick and tired of cleaning up your mess, and I am sick and
tired of waking up in wet beds. You will wear diapers from now on, like a good baby.”
Kenny was shocked. He lay there, his eyes darting between me and the diaper, his face pleading, trying to
see if I was serious.
“Karen,” he started, but I stopped him.
“There will be no negotiating,” I said. “Mommies do not negotiate with babies. You constantly wet your
bed, so it is clear that you are a baby. I love you, but I know where our relationship has to go in order for it
He backed down.
“Good. Now, here are the rules. You will wear diapers at all times. You are not toilet trained and cannot
be trusted not to wet yourself. You will not ever remove your own diapers; if you need a change, you will
ask me. You may not take them off to pee, either; the only time I will take them off is when you have to
poop. From now on, I am the mommy, and the mommy is in charge. Do you understand, little boy?”
Kenny lay there, stunned. At first, he didn’t say anything, and I was afraid I had gone too far. Then
sheepishly, he said, “Yes, Mommy.”
I taped him into the large diaper. He looked ridiculous, but I knew it would make our lives a lot easier if I
could be what he needed. Kenny was not allowed to wear pants in the apartment for a week. We turned the
heat up, and as soon as he got home he had to strip to his diaper and a t-shirt for the evening. He took all of
his liquids from a baby bottle that I had bought, and I spoon-fed him all of his meals. When he had to leave
the house, it was with a diaper beneath his clothes; when he returned, he was always soaking wet and
desperate for a change. But our bed was dry every night. And, to tell the truth, the whole thing was really
fun, in a kinky sort of way.
After a few months, Kenny finally admitted to me what I had suspected all along: he liked being treated like
a baby. It made him feel secure, he said. He told me that his mother had sometimes punished him in that
way for his wetting, and he missed it when she stopped. At times when he was only wetting every once in a
while, he said, he often wished he could stop altogether. But when it inevitably grew worse, he longed for
the safety of diapers.
Kenny was always my baby after that. I made him some very cute baby clothes, and we went for walks in
the park in his diaper suits in the evening. Sometimes, when we were feeling adventurous, we used the
harness I made for him. Sometimes he walked at night in nothing but a diaper and a top. Often we would
go to the mall, looking for new baby things for him. I think he was sincerely embarrassed when I would
hold things up to him to see how they might fit. Of course, they were always way too small; it’s a good
thing my mother taught me how to sew.
A couple of years later, Kenny and I got married. (Of course, he wore diapers under his tuxedo. I even had
to change him at the reception!) When we bought a house, we chose one with a large playroom in the
basement, even though we were not planning to have any children. No one ever goes down there except us;
our friends don’t even know it exists. But over the years we have furnished it with things–some bought,
some home-made–for Baby Kenny. Down in the playroom, we have over-sized baby furniture, toys to play
with, teddy bears to hug. We have a large changing table, and we even have a shower to clean him off when
he messes himself, which he does occasionally these days. Lately, when I’m feeling a bit frisky, I even put
the diapers on myself and we play together, just two babies having fun. I have to admit I understand and
like the feeling of security they give. I enjoy being diapered, even though I don’t have anyone to be my
mommy, as Kenny has me.
We don’t have company very often, because Kenny and I would much rather just play in our diapers by
ourselves. Last week, though, was difficult. Kenny’s parents came to visit for several days, and we had to
behave ourselves. Kenny had to wear clothes over his diapers at all times, and I couldn’t really wear mine at
all. As they left, his mother leaned over and asked me when we were going to have children; she wanted a
baby she could play with. I looked at Kenny and said nothing. I simply smiled.