So what am I wearing? I have to admit, it’s rather embarrassing. Let me see if I can take you through this, outside in.
I’m lucky today. I’m not wearing a bonnet. Instead my hair, cut short and curled in a tight perm, dyed a natural looking ginger, is entirely visible. It’s almost a relief, the previous pigtails with satin pink bows was humiliating in its childishness, yet those have gone because they just weren’t sufficiently infantile. Instead I have what adults would describe as a fascinator. It’s a big artificial flower, yellow petals around a golden centre, entirely out of proportion for my head.
But that’s the point. Big flower, little girl.
My face is devoid of make-up. From their logic this makes sense; babies don’t wear make-up. Strange that their logic doesn’t extend to surgery. I can’t escape my puffed out cheeks, unusually round eyes, a pudgy cuteness I thought I’d left long behind yet have had returned to me by their command. Not that all of it is visible, my missing teeth hidden from sight by the protective panel of a large pacifier which also kept from view my lips and its own intrusion into my mouth. That is evident through my unavoidable suckling, my mouth reacting instinctively to its invader, inappropriately seeking comfort.
That makes me want to scream but I can’t. Not the effective nature of the gag forced onto me. Instead the bitter twisted truth that it’s working, giving me comfort against my own desires.
I need that comfort. The corduroy pinafore dress is stylish in its own way, a mid-thigh a-line version could be sexy and attractive. Mine is a-line but not mid-thigh, the flair not accentuating adult curves but exposing what’s worn beneath. I can’t stay modest in this and yet what I’m wearing beneath it makes modesty irrelevant. Nobody can see anything anyway.
Not that this helps. An adult version of my dress wouldn’t have the ruffled hem, especially wouldn’t have the ruffles on the straps over my shoulders. It definitely wouldn’t have those straps fastened with invisible locks. Nobody could see those, couldn’t tell I was trapped in this costume, wouldn’t know I was imprisoned and unable to escape. But if they could they’d probably approve, appreciate the subtle control over me, admire my subjugation and forced acceptance of this childish attire.
Breaking my promise to go outside-in, let me skip ahead a little. A pinafore on a grown woman is a choice of modesty, mature breasts forcing the front panel out, the layers below the only differentiator between demure sensuality and brazen sexuality. I’d lost that option, a forced double-masectomy giving me the flat chest of a man. Or a baby.
It meant the onesie I wore wasn’t feminine in nature. It didn’t soften womanly curves, it hid a gender neutral shape, my female identity lost in androgyneity. Babies’ gender is defined by their clothing, not physical characteristics. My clothing was appropriate for a girl, my matching body parts merely a hidden confirmation.
The onesie was functional, its design suited for easy care of a baby rather than showing off its wearer. Plain white, to avoid clashing with the dark purple pinafore, its primary features were the poppers. They held together the seams at the shoulders, easy to undo, allowing removal without pulling the whole garment over the wearer’s head.
Shamefully this was a feature I welcomed. Too often those poppers or their functionally equivalent alternatives on other onesies (‘envelope’ shoulders) had saved me, the lower part of what I was wearing something I wanted nowhere near my face. The shame wasn’t in the clothing, it was what my body had done to it, against my will.
There were more poppers at the bottom of the onesie, these ones between my legs. Ideally these were undone to dress or undress me, and today they were hidden entirely from view.
That was because of my tights. Sleek nylon slimming my legs and making them look longer was for a long time a chosen part of how I dressed, but not what I was wearing now. Knitted tights were warm and functional, and with a cartoon motif knitted into the bottom were humiliatingly infantile. My pinafore was no help, rarely covering my bottom and its supposedly cute display. Never when someone lifted it from behind to show off my tights, let others take delight in my belittlement.
That degrading view was broad and visible, the motif on the tights not distorted by the curve of my hips. It was instead presented on a platform from below, provided by the extremely thick clothing I wore beneath. Thick flexible plastic over layers of bamboo gauze or a thin waterproof layer over superabsorbent polymers held in place by cotton fluff, invariably I was always trapped in a thirsty layer of protection.
Today it felt like several layers of cloth, held in place by old school pins. I wasn’t sure what kept moisture from soiling my clothing, my interest in such matters diminished by countless changes, all options leading to personal discomfort soon after being changed.
Which raises of course the question of why I would tolerate this. Why would I submit to such a debasement, the discomfort of soiling myself, the risk of contaminating my clothing, the mockery of those around me. The last thing I wore gave me no choice, the mittens taunting me by not even being locked in place. Indeed, the locks on my pinafore were themselves a vicious tease. I couldn’t use my hands, could curl and tense my fingers and thumbs as much as I wished; I couldn’t use them to grip anything, remove the mittens restricting their use, apply them to my other clothes or the straps holding me into the seat I was trapped in.
That seat came with restraints, holding me in place, forcing me to accept the gentle rocking motion whenever anybody pulled it down and released it. At least my tights were hidden while I was sat here, even if it meant I had to sit in whatever I’d done to that soft padding beneath them. I found relief in that, my choices taken away, no guilt in succumbing to what was inevitable.
Which was perhaps the point. I didn’t need the mittens, the locks, the restraints. They all took away agency, gave me mental release from my situation, made me a victim and not the instigator of my pathetic state. Which meant I could enjoy it, take secret pleasure in the blushes caused by the taunts, welcome the gentle cleansing of my own abasement.
My clothing doesn’t dictate my situation or behaviour. It excuses it, gives me freedom to embrace it. Means I can welcome the person approaching, not take offence at their gentle derision, appreciate that they’re going to undo those straps, pull down my tights, remove the soiled padding and make me clean and comfortable once more. I think I’ll reach out with my helpless hands, invite a cuddle, maybe get a gentle kiss on my nose.
They’ll change me. Why would I change anything?