Douglas_greene@hotmail.com

My reflection still shocks me. I've been like this for over a month, and I still have trouble believing that the image I see in the mirror, the chubby brown-eyed baby boy laying on his back with his legs in the air, is mine.

I knew that it would eventually come to this. My doctor told me when I was diagnosed with ARV that I'd bounce at around four months. Initially my wife seemed pleased that I was accepting my situation so bravely. She had no way of knowing that I secretly found the prospect of becoming her baby quite thrilling as I'd had age regression fantasies for years!

The problem is, being a baby isn't at all what I'd imagined it would be. The very things that I thought would be exciting about this life are tedious and tiresome, and I'd give anything to be big again.

For example, in my fantasy a diaper change was an erotic experience that I'd get to savor many times each day. There'd be no responsibilities for reciprocating; I'd simply lie back and enjoy the tender sensory-laden ministrations of my wife or pretty young girl. Let me tell you, in actuality, nothing could be further from the truth. I've found that shitting your pants and sitting in your own waste until someone takes the time to change you is highly overrated.

I suppose that part of it could have something to do with decreased hormone production. Looking back, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that as I regressed my sex drive diminished until it completely disappeared. Now, being held and cuddled by women holds no appeal. In fact, I find the constant attention by members of the opposite sex to be just another aggravating feature of my miserable existence.

As I lay here, waiting for my oldest son to return to undress me so that he can clean me of the smelly mess that I seem capable of endlessly producing, I wonder how I could have been so utterly naïve. My life has become an endless string of sink baths and diaper changes, and I'm completely unable to understand how any of this could have once appealed to me.

He is above me now, wrinkling his face in disgust as he pulls at the crotch snaps of my little creeper. Cool air hits wet skin, and I'm unable to stop myself from sending a quick arch of urine onto my son's clean white sweater.

"Damn it Dad!" I hear him shout as his massive hands roughly close around my shoulders and lift me to a sitting position. He shakes me; there is just an instant of pain, and I am gone.


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