Listen, y’all. The readers of my blog, and especially those who follow me: I really love you guys and gals. I never thought when I started this, that I’d ever have as many readers as I do. It’s truly awesome, in the literal meaning of the word.

When I first started this, I had maybe 4 readers a week, sometimes less. Lately, I have been getting about 300 reads a week! That’s hard for me to fathom. I would assume that the name The Nylon Obsession is part of it, thanks to Google. I don’t really know. I do know that the frottage story seems to be the most popular, the most read.

I have shared many stories and opinions, and truths about me. I’ve said it before, but every story I write is completely true. I’ve shared a lot. People who know me personally don’t even know most of the things that I have shared with you all. I consider you readers friends. I know it sounds like hokey bullshit, but it’s true.

Now… I have talked about some of my turn-ons. If you’ve even casually skimmed through one or two posts, you know that. And, of course, the title of the blog is a dead giveaway as to my main ‘bent’.

But..,and I hate to say it…but…I’ve been holding out. I have another obsession, or whatever you want to call it, that I haven’t shared with you. And, almost as much as my obsession with nylon, silky and smooth clothes, this part of me gets bigger all the time.

The thing is, I really hope my followers, my friends,  don’t read about this and think “Okay. That’s it. I’m done with this gender-confused, cross-dressing moron. It’s too much.”

But it’s become such an integral part of me, that I’m going to close my eyes and jump in. I’m going to tell you. If I feel it’s a huge disastrous idea, perhaps I’ll delete the post. I don’t want to do that, but I really don’t want to alienate any readers.

Christ, enough build-up already!

Here goes nothing.

I am an age player. I’m an “adult baby, slash diaper lover”. An AB/DL. I wear adult-sized disposable baby diapers. I don’t always engage in the age play aspect. And… I don’t always wear toddler-ish clothes. (Like overalls, or short-alls and cute babyish t-shirts.)  I don’t gurgle or talk like a baby. Sometimes, the diaper I’ll choose will have a cute, childish pattern on the front, but most of the time it’s plain white. They’re thick, they’re snug, with two tapes on each side, and they make the cutest (sometimes TOO loud) crackle sound when I walk. And the answer is “yes and no.” Yes, I use them. I wet them. No, I don’t “mess” them. No number two for me. To be honest, I have messed them, but the clean-up is a bit too much for me. But wetting? Yes. (Without going into detail, wetting my diaper (especially when I have one on under my clothes when I’m out in public) feels great. Of course, after a minute or so, the padding soaks it all and you feel completely dry. The adult diapers available on sites like, or are amazing. They’re sometimes referred to as ‘designer’ diapers and generally cost a couple bucks each! But, you save money in the long run because they can be wet, and re-wet about four or five times before they start to leak, and therefore don’t need to be changed as much.

I’m well aware: The image of me, in a giant crib sucking on an oversized bottle, and cooing “goo goo, ga ga” is ridiculous. Even to me. But just sitting around and watching tv is a completely different experience if I have a diaper on under my Under Armour track pants.. You probably don’t know it’s a cliche among AB/DLs, but…wearing a diaper makes me feel safe. Comforted. And I forget my ‘adult’ troubles for a while. It makes me feel so happy, words don’t do it justice.

I know it’s fucked up. I know there’s a chance that most people are going to unfollow me, and write me off as a freak. But, if you do any reading about this fetish or lifestyle (and really, why would you have studied it?) you’ll know that people who have this ‘obsession’ with wearing diapers have absolutely NO CONTROL OVER THEIR DESIRES. It’s like liking vanilla ice cream. I don’t really know ‘why’ I like…need to engage in this behavior, but it’s part of me. And I can’t change it. I can change my behavior. I can throw out all my AB stuff. My diapers. But the desire will always, and has always, been a large part of who I am. I’ve had this desire since I was at least 5 years old. Truly.

As I said, I’ve been wearing more and more of late. It’s gone from a couple times a weak to an almost daily thing. Even if it’s only for an hour a day. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had a lot more personal problems. Family problems. Work problems. Identity problems! Gender identity problems. And…taping on an adult-sized plastic, thick and comfy disposable diaper makes me feel great. It’s like it lifts the weight off me. A emit a huge sigh. A sigh that says “There! Now that’s better!” Believe it or not, even though wearing a diaper does ‘excite’ me, turn me on; I don’t masturbate while wearing all the time. Sometimes, the enjoyment and comfort of being diapered isn’t sexual in the slightest. Sometimes.

What saddens me, though, is this: I’ve never had another guy ‘change’ me. I’ve never had the one thing I’ve wanted as long as I can remember. (Now, I don’t like the word ‘daddy.’ I feel silly even writing it.) But…I guess that what it amounts to. I want a guy to treat me like his little brother. Or even treat me like a son. Be my daddy. My “little” age is not a newborn, but a toddler. Like, three years old. To have a guy hug me, cuddle me, play with my hair and tell me I’m a “good boy” is what I want. What I need. And I want/need it badly. I think about it every day.

Isnt there some guy out there that would love to be a daddy (I’m so embarrassed!) or my big brother? And…just take care of me? He’d protect me. He’d hold my hand and tell me not to be scared. “Daddy’s here, little guy. No need to worry. About anything.” I’d say “I know, daddy” and smile, looking at the ground shyly. He’d laugh at my behavior and pull me into a hug. He’d say “You are such a cute, good little boy.” And…my heart would soar. I’d know that I was the luckiest guy in the world.

No matter how silly and ludicrous this all may sound to you, to me? Not having someone? It hurts. A lot.

But, I guess it’ll always be just a fantasy.


[I don’t get a ton of letters, or people making comments on my posts. But this time, I would love to hear what you all think. Is it too much? And, what do you think? Do you have any ideas as to how I could find another guy to love me and protect me? Do YOU want to be that guy? (sorry girls) Just some words of support would mean the world to me.

Coming out and admitting my gender issues seems like a cake walk compared to admitting this. I hope I haven’t made a huge error.]



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IMG_7103Okay. Well, I’ve shared my big news. I am trans. I think. Wait…I know. Well….pretty sure I am.

It’s rare for me to write an entry so soon after the last. But, I can’t stop thinking about this thing. It’s like every waking moment I have this fantasy. This dream. And I’m sad and frustrated because I don’t think it’ll ever happen. But, here is what I wish could and would happen to me on any night.

I’m putting the finishing touches on my night’s outfit. Fixing my makeup so I look just right. Feminine, pretty, but not tarty. I’m very surprised and pleased with my choices.

There’s a soft knock on my door. I run to answer it, checking myself out one last time in the foyer mirror before opening the door. I know who it is, and I’m instantly shy, and very very nervous. It’s hard for me to make eye contact.

Who’s at the door? It’s my date. It’s a guy. A cute guy! He’s wearing maybe jeans, an oxford shirt, a nice dark blazer and nice black leather shoes. His hair is short and perfectly mussed, when in actuality he spent 30 minutes getting it to look like he didn’t touch it. He sees me looking at the floor and he quickly checks me out. A huge smile breaks out. Beautiful smile, with beautiful teeth. Just a hint of facial hair. Enough to look masculine but not too much so he looks like a Swedish Death Metal fan.

Of course, he hands me the requisite flowers. They’re tasteful and perfect. I invite him in.

“Hi, Jeffrey,” I say. Yeah, his name is Jeff in my dreams. (It’s a long story.)

“Wow,” he says, “You look fantastic.” I blush at the compliment. Even though I believe him, it’s hard for me to take compliments. He even leans in and gives me a quick, sweet kiss on the cheek. Once I get the flowers in water, I’m ready to go. Jeff has made himself comfortable on the couch. As soon as I walk into the room, he stands.

“Are you hungry, Corey?” he asks. He helps me put on my jacket. He smells wonderful. No matter how much I’d like him to kiss me passionately, it’s not going to happen. Tonight, I’m being a good girl.

Yes, Jeff knows about me. He knows who I am. He couldn’t care less about my “parts.” He loves women. And to him, and to me, that’s what I am. And to him? I’m a very pretty, nice, funny, smart and loving woman. That’s all he sees. I can tell from everything this boy does that HE feels lucky to take ME out on a date!

Honestly, and I say this with no hint of self pity: that’s never happened. I’ve never felt a person, male or female, taking me out…and HIM being the nervous one. HIM being the one subtly trying to impress me. But this night, Jeff is on his super-best behavior. He’s trying to woo me. His boyish attempts to hide his attraction and… just plain INTEREST in me is soooooo adorable.

Jeff does everything right. At dinner he looks into my eyes the entire time. He’s transfixed. He takes my hand across the table, and softly rubs his thumb up and down the back of my hand. He’s wonderful. We talk. A lot. He asks caring questions about me and growing up trans. I ask about what it was like being the star athlete in high school. He’s funny, self effacing yet utterly knows who he is.

And you know what else I dream about happening that night? Nothing. No sex. Nothing fantastical. Just a date. A date with a sexy, handsome, polite, and utterly charming guy. He takes me home after a long over-two-hour dinner and kisses me goodnight. A nice kiss. Not sleazy. He tells me he’ll call me very soon to set up the next date. I stare, watching him leave. I’ve got the stupidest, most wonderful smile.

Jeff leaves, and I enter my apartment. What a great night, I think as I slip off my heels. Then, my phone rings. I don’t immediately recognize the number but I answer anyway. It’s Jeff. He’s on speaker while he’s driving. He couldn’t wait the bullshit three days. He’s calling me five minutes after dropping me off. He asks if I’m busy tomorrow. He wants another date. (And naturally, No. No, I’m not busy.)

And that’s the end. I know, it’s pretty tame and a little boring. But in my whole life, I’ve never had a fantasy I’ve wanted more.

Ugh! Sigh.