Love & Sex

I Did It for Science: Infantilism

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imageI Did It For Science by Grant Stoddard

To experience infantilism, the sexual fetish that involves being diapered, powdered, spanked and otherwise treated like half a man.

State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.

When I was told that I’d be spending a few hours getting pampered, I assumed that my editor had finally caved and would let me have a say in the type of assignments I get. I soon learned that he was speaking literally. I guess being a baby was fun, but, to tell you the truth, I can’t really remember — and neither can you. Sure, avoiding the rigors of chewing, staying awake for less than an hour at a time and not leaving the room to poop sounds like fun on paper, but is it sexy?

Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

Baby wipe (one)
Diaper (one)
Pacifier (one)
Rattle (one)
Bib (one)
Bonnet (one)
Pureed carrots (one jar of)

In this portion of your report, you must describe step-by-step what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

Déjà vu? — Once again I find myself in Chelsea before noon, addressing a female disciplinarian as “Miss” while she craftily tinkers with my bare undercarriage. But it’s safe to say that my previous sexual explorations had never led me in this Oedipal direction before.

Adam, the Nerve photography intern, and I arrived at Mistress Caress’s studio just a smidgen before midday. Tall, blonde and stunningly beautiful, Mistress Caress doesn’t look much like your archetypal mother figure, but she has to be many things to many people. The operation that bears her name caters to the full spectrum of folks who want to relinquish control in one way or another. Among other tutorials, she offers slut training, genital experimentation, forced feminization and foot worship. Treating grown men like babies has also become a large part of her repertoire.

Mistress Caress introduced me to her small team of assistants, then led me to a red-and-black room fitted with medieval-looking torture-and-bondage devices, harnesses and dildos. Frightening Gregorian chants played softly in the background. Even Anton LaVey wouldn’t decorate his kid’s bedroom like this. I was asked to strip naked and lie on a four-poster bed replete with black vinyl mattress and mirrored ceiling. I coquettishly shrugged out of my streetwear, unfolded a disposable baby-changing mat — made from same stuff they make diapers from — and laid it flat on the bed.

I lay there preserving my modesty with a palm while Caress left the room to prepare. Naked as the day I was born (although it felt more so as Adam snapped away at close range), I started to wonder whether the idea is to lull oneself into thinking that one actually is a baby — or whether being conscious that you’re an adult is all part of the fun? The satanic-looking décor and big sticker listing accepted credit cards made it hard to convince myself that I was a bona fide ankle-biter in a nursery room. Mistress Caress strode back into the room to get things started in earnest.

Quantify the effects of the experiment.

“Will you be soiling yourself?” she asked, pouting her lips and batting her formidable eyelashes. “No!” I shouted back, totally shocked. “People do that?” She smiled and purred, “Oh yes.” I shuddered in horror. Before I could regain what little composure I had left, Caress grabbed both of my feet and in one fluid motion hoisted them skyward while pushing my knees to my chest.

“Let’s begin then, shall we?” she said, now wielding a small spray bottle in her free hand. “Whoooooo!” I cried, as my surrogate “mommy” spritzed my most private of areas with cold water. Refreshing really wasn’t the word. Perhaps she was doing an experiment of her own, measuring the effects of frigid fluid on male genitalia. Or perhaps she was just trying to coerce me into the role by inducing some befitting physical changes.

With my knuckles white and tightly wrapped around my elevated ankles, I winced as M.C. introduced a baby wipe to my ass crack. I can only assume that she’d been keeping the container in the fridge. “There!” she said with a satisfied sigh. “Baby’s all fresh.”

Gingerly hovering by the door were two of Caress’s assistants, Baby and Suzy. A smile from their employer told them it was okay to wander in and witness the horrible scene for themselves. No one asked me if it was okay — and I was the one with his dingus greeting all and sundry. I supposed that children are to be seen and not heard.

Terrified that I’d be chided for breaking character, I hesitantly asked the stern and beautiful woman who’d just wiped my arse if it was de rigueur for me to communicate with her. “Well, most people just gurgle. You know, goo-goo gah-gah. That kind of thing,” she said, cocking her head at my bum as she powdered it. “Others prompt me to say certain things or act in a certain way.”

Well, nothing sprang to mind. And it was far too early in the day to gurgle like an idjeet, so I acted like the good baby I never was and took the Fifth. Chuckles emanated from the back of the room. I felt ridiculous.

Thankfully, the time had arrived for me to get dressed — sort of. With my legs still high in the air, Caress fed my feet through the legholes of a diaper. Wearing it didn’t feel unpleasant, and I was grateful to be covered up. After that came a pair of plastic knickers that featured a truly massive safety pin, a white T-shirt and a matching blue-and-white, polka-dot bib and bonnet set. An oversized pacifier (called a “dummy” in England, which seemed kind of appropriate at the moment) was shoved into my kisser and a plastic rattle shoved into my hand. With a red lipstick, Caress went about making my cheeks and nose rosier. I’m still not sure if she was trying to make me look babyish or Irish.

“Aw, what an adorable baby!” lied Baby the assistant. I looked like your worst fucking nightmare. There was no shortage of mirrors for me to take in this gangly, scruffy-faced, hairy-legged, gin-blossomed brute in a diaper. It depressed the hell out of me — it really did.

Lunch time! I really can’t remember much about how baby food tastes. But I do remember that a slightly hot ‘n’ kooky girl at my high school used to eat it. So I was certain that it was doable. I sat on the edge of the bed next to Caress, who popped open a jar of pureed carrots. She did the whole choo-choo-going-into-the-tunnel performance that I have recollections of loathing as a lower-case G. She motioned me to make an O shape with my mouth as she covered my upper and lower lips with a spoonful of the cold orange slop. I got a good whiff of it and it took every sinew of my being to stop from blowing chunks everywhere. My tongue curled and fell back toward my throat; I retched uncontrollably. Through fits of my tears, Caress continued to jab the spoon in the general direction of my mouth. Clearly this was a woman who remained undaunted by anything she might coax out of my body. I begged her to wipe off the carrot slime. “No one really likes the carrots,” she admitted, still chuckling. “But I’ve never really seen anyone do that before.” Great. Now I was a baby and a pussy. Baby handed Caress a jar of bananas. “Let’s try these.” Again with the getting-it-all-over-my-punim, and again I almost spew. In the unlikely event that I’ll be siring a litter, I’ll seek alternative nutrition for my kids before supporting those fucking Gerber people. The dessertif was apple juice in a baby bottle, and I was totally jonesing it, if only to get the sticky carrot-banana amalgam out of my mouth. As with the food, Caress teased me with the juice. “Stick your tongue out!” she said, as I craned my neck to get the bottle’s teat in my mouth. “Oh, someone’s going to be a very popular boy when he grows up!” She said it with that smushed jaw, pursed lips and rising intonation thing that people use to talk to babies. Finally, I managed to get a good mouthful of juice before it was decided that I had been a bad baby for getting messy. Cripes, it was spanking time.

Caress put me over her knee and pulled my diaper over my cheeks. She wasn’t out to hurt me. She just gave me firm, from-the-wrist pats on either side of my powdered arse. I could safely say this was the closest I got to being turned on during the session. From my position, I couldn’t really see what was going on, but judging from the frequency with which Adam’s flash was lighting up the room, my bare, slapped ass must have looked spectacular. I closed my eyes and tried to regress to a simpler time when a tanned fanny would have been tantamount to death, but I was enjoying it too much. Not in a sexual way, of course. More in a “this is so much easier than having to eat those shitty carrots” way.

“We usually like to finish up with bath time,” suggested the mistress. I clapped my hands together in front of my face. “Yay!” Caress’s henchwomen ran me a bath while their employer helped me undress, never breaking eye contact. “Get in,” she instructed and handed me a rubber ducky to play with. Once in the bath I hammed it up, slapping the surface of the water and splashing around in the bubbles. The mistress grabbed one hand and yanked it high above my head so she could give me a good scrub down. Once I was squeaky clean, Mistress Caress toweled me off and gave me a big maternal hug, effectively ending our session. I got dressed, said my goodbyes and scurried out onto sunny Eighth Avenue — once again a fully grown man.

Summarize your findings. Don’t forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.

As Mistress Caress explained to me, the infantilism sessions are typically driven by the person living out the fantasy, so she was really giving me an overview of what a session may include. I did enjoy my experience with Mistress Caress, although I must profess that I was in no way turned on by being mollycoddled, even by a beautiful woman. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but nursing would have been the perfect bridge between role-playing an infant and getting turned on purely from having boobs in my face. (I’m a simple guy, really.) Stupid, stupid, stupid. I emailed Mistress Caress when I got back to the office. She replied that nursing was never included in her commercial sessions and was saved only for really good babies. Damn.
Most men are fully aroused during the session. Often, the excitement of Mistress Caress dishing out some maternal admonishment to their heinies is enough to bring them to orgasm. Caress makes sure to lower their diaper just enough to expose their buttocks, taking care to keep their hair-trigger pee-pee covered. I asked her why so many men get off by the hand that rocks the cradle. “I believe that most of these men grew up at a time when more moms were going to work,” she explained. “Even some stay-at-home moms just aren’t physically expressive with hugs, kisses and touches. These poor babies just didn’t get enough nurturing, tenderness and female affection.” I guess I got enough.

Do you have an idea for Grant’s next I Did It for Science? Let him know here.

Visit Mistress Caress’s official website at Her Manhattan-based, woman-owned-and-operated studio is seeking part-time and full-time assistants. Experience is not necessary. If interested, call 212.924.1564.


© 2002 Grant Stoddard and, Inc.