Mama's boy. That's what my Dad called me through my childhood. Looking back, I guess he was right. Here I am in my mid forties living with her, secretly maintaining a relationship I think of as our marriage.
My Dad was a Marine Corps drill instructor, and a man's man through and through. I admired and respected him for his toughness and more than anything wanted to be like him. But it wasn't in the cards. Where he was tough I was passive. Where he was lean, hard and athletic, I was soft, chubby and prone to asthma attacks. It really didn't help that I was a nightly bed wetter until long after he died.
His constant teasing stung me, and still echoes in my head to this day. I won't lie and say there were never times I hated him for it, but for the most part, his disapproval only made me hate myself and wish even harder to be like him. The Marine Corps has no use for asthmatic bed wetters.
Mama mia never held my softness or my bedwetting against me. Dad always said it was her fault, and deep down I think me and Mama both believed him. At times I blamed Mama and her constant babying for the fact I stayed chubby. I know for a fact her loving attention kept me wetting the bed for years after I could have stopped.
Mama never scolded me for wetting. She never uttered one disapproving word and assured me I couldn't help it. She diapered me every night and saw to all my laundering of diapers and bed linens. She turned what could be a shameful crushing secret into our bedtime and breakfast time opportunity to connect and renew the strong bond we had.
Dad was never home at night. We spent a big chunk of my childhood in South Carolina where he herded new Marines through boot camp. Most nights he slept at the barracks and some other nights he was drinking in the bars. Many times that he was not a drill instructor, he was deployed for training or ship duty. Mostly it was just me and Mama, and I think we both preferred it that way.
Mama thought I could not tell, but I knew she was very quietly involved with other Marines for short little flings. But I never thought of her as a bad person. She married a man who drank and had a bad temper, who preferred to be anywhere but home with her and his mama's boy son. He made fun of her thick Italian accent and her occasional mangling of the English language. If he had not gotten her pregnant in her home town of Aviano, Italy, both of their lives would have been much different.
At 20 she found herself with a newborn baby boy with breathing problems, living in a country where she barely spoke the language, too far from home and married to a man who was distant and angry. (Today Dad would have been diagnosed with post traumatic stress after Vietnam and had counseling and treatment for his substance abuse.)
When I was 10, Dad was killed in a training accident in California. Mama wanted badly to return to Italy, but knew she had better access to our survivor benefits while living in the US. She also knew my Italian was pretty bad and I'd be way behind in school there. She stayed in America for me.
She worked part time and we lived off dividends of the insurance money she invested. The small pension covered the rest of our needs. We lived well. I won't pretend we weren't crushed that Dad was gone for good, but we were already used to it. We survived.
Mama's babying of me got even worse (or better from my point of view.) Instead of diapering me strictly at bed time she sometimes would bathe me right after dinner and then diaper me right after my bath. I'd romp around in my diapers, and just use the toilet and not my diapers when the need arose. I could sort of get my little cazzone to reach past the diapers and the top of my plastic pants and pee in the toilet while standing. Maybe a few drops wouldn't make it, but that's no different than wearing underpants, right?
Some mornings when there was no school mom would say she'd change me after breakfast and I'd eat at the dining room table in my damp diapers. I preferred to be in dry diapers, but wet diapers were pretty good too and I enjoyed showing them off in just my pajama top. Often I'd get a pat on the butt, and nothing feels better than a pat on your diapered bottom, especially from your Mama.
All good things come to an end. One night at age 11 it happened. I'd always, as long as I'd remembered gotten erections when being diapered. I do to this day. But on this night, it wasn't a simple half-mast situation Mama could get rid of by folding my diapers over. This erection would not do anything but spring back up. I knew better than to laugh as it defied her, and honestly I was deeply shamed.
The next day after school I got a crash course in diapering myself, and Mama never diapered me again for almost 30 years. A few nights in a row my diapers leaked on the mattress cover and soaked my blanket. I wasn't getting the plastic pants situated properly and causing leaks.
From then on I diapered myself after bath time and went to Mama for her to put my plastic pants on. She knew how to do it properly and no more leaks. But I missed her loving hands taking care of me. Many nights I'd lay in bed and masturbate into my already wet diapers and remember her diapering me. I would imagine her breast feeding me. In some of my fantasies these things happened in public. Sometimes I saw myself as a baby, sometimes as a boy my own age.
This lasted about another year until I was 12, and then things changed again. As Mama became more and more of my ideal woman, and as I became more and more infatuated with her, I became very concerned with looking grown up and manly in front of her. I knew I wanted my diapers (and Mama knew it too) but they had to go. A few days after deciding to be dry at night I was. The diapers and plastic pants got boxed up and tucked into the bottom of the linen closet. Mama knew I needed access to them. And with her working nights, I had it. But the plastic pants got too tight, and the diapers got too small to pin on as I grew up and out.
