Mary and Daphne #160

Does anyone remember when the ASPCA was airing those Sarah McLachlan Angel commercials? All those pictures of sick and injured and malnourished dogs and that saccharine song playing over them? Holy shit did I fugly cry. Those were on before I met Mary, but I stumbled onto it on YouTube years later, when I did know Mary, and she made a rule: I am not allowed to watch that commercial. Anywhere I encounter it, I must look away.

Of course, that rule would’ve been much more useful earlier that same week, because by then it was too late. Too late for what? Too late to avoid the spanking I got when the credit card statement came showing a sizeable donation to the ASPCA. Mary praised my soft heart and generosity while reminding me we were trying to get me out of credit card debt and that I literally couldn’t afford to be quite (or half) as charitable as I had been.

This anecdote by way of pointing out that I am a very giving, charitable person. Too charitable for my own good. For the right cause or the right person, I’ll give the shirt off my back and throw in the buttons. I’ll even (dammit!) give up my pride, which is why it sucks to be me sometimes, like on Valentine’s Day. Because Mary is the right person, making her happy is the right cause, and she said she wanted a surprising experience (or experiential surprise) for her present. Well, I figured one out. I figured it out, and I’m still processing the consequences.

This story of good intentions and misbegotten ideas is best begun, of all the unusual places in this unusual universe Mary and I are living our unusual lives in, in the guest bathroom. Our heroine (that’s me, btw) is sitting on the edge of the tub, knowing Mary is hard at work on work stuff just one room away. I was sitting there giving myself a pep talk and I tried to work up my courage to actually do the deed.

“She’ll like it,” I told myself. “She loves when you do little stuff on your own … Remember how happy she was when you went into her office and just made an uwu face without saying a word and she just held you for, like, an hour? She was so happy, she was practically glowing … But it’s … No! No! Stop coming up with reasons not to. It’s not for you. It’s for her. She’s your Mary. It’s Valentine’s Day. You do it. You just … just do it and be done with it. Do it, turn on the crocodile tears, and let Mary take care of you. It’ll be over soon.”

Which turned out to be more easily said than done. You think I’d be pretty good at it considering I’ve been doing it for so long, but my body knew better. It did not want to do the deed, and I spent more time trying to relax and let it happen than I did on the mental prep. Turns out, understatement of this young year, I should’ve spent more time on the mental prep because I was heccin not mentally prepared.

The feeling of relief quickly gave way to, O my god. I can’t believe I did that. I … calm down. Just … calm down. Or … no, stop that. No crying. They’re supposed to be crocodile tears, not real ones! Not real ones! … … … I! Want! My! Mary!

Which was the plan anyway, but it was supposed to be a scene. I do it, I get pretend-teary, Mary makes it better. Not I do it, I flip the heck out, Mary makes it better. Maybe it looks the same on the outside, but it feels totally different on the inside (what a poorly timed pun). So me, Daphne, your heroine, shuffling into Mary’s office with real tears on my cheeks.

“I was just about to come find you,” Mary said when she heard me cross the threshold into her office. She leaned forward to switch off her monitors. A big snurfle from me, and she turned my way, her expression instantly turning into her o-no-what-happened face, the real kind and not the kind she makes during scenes. On her feet in a heartbeat, she crossed the room in a single bound and had me in her arms saying, “Daffy, what happened?”

I tried really hard to say, and all I got out was, “Hhh hhh hhh hhh.”

“You need to take a breath, sweetie.”

O, for cripe’s sake, like I wasn’t trying to do exactly that (hence the gasping). I don’t need lessons in breathing. I need lessons in making choices that don’t end in me sobbing like a family member named My Dignity died.

“(Sad bunny noises) and (mourning mooses) and your present and (regretful rhino).” She can usually decipher me, but I guess I was quite the hot mess.

“Daphne, Daphne, look at me. Is everyone alright?”

“Uh-(snurf)-huh-(fle).”

“Are you hurt?”

“Nuh-(snort)-uh.” Damn, I’m fun to be around: word play, kinky, the occasional grown-woman-crying-so-hard-there’s-snot-bubbles. If I were any prettier, we’d need more Kleenex. True story.

“Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you crying? Use your words.”

I use words like nobody’s business! Just not when I’ve gone and undermined one of my last shreds of self-respect.

“Come,” she said and led me to our living room she sat down in the big chair and pulled me into her lap. “Shhh,” she cooed at me. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it. It’ll be …” Ah, she finally notices what’s amiss, when I’m in her lap and she’s sharing just a sliver of the sensation I’m experiencing. “Daffy, did you … Are your pants wet?”

YES! AND I HATE IT AND I WANNA UNDO IT AND I CAAAAAAAAANNNNNN’’’’’’’’TTTTTTT!

Which is pronounced, “Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”

“Um, it’s okay? It’s just … ugh. You’re soaked. You must’ve really had to go.”

“I didn’t mean to-hoo-hoo!” To be clear, the upsetting myself part. The wetting my black yoga pants, I meant to do.

“Well, um, accidents happen. You don’t have to cry. Did you just forget you weren’t wearing your diapers?”

“They’re (sob) not (sob) mine (waaaaiiiillll)!”

“Shhh, please try to calm down. It happened, and I’m not mad. It’s okay. I’ll make it all better.”

She had better make it all better! It’s her job as the dominant. My job is to be cute, let her use my butt as a stress ball, and make her feel like the most important and cherished person in the world (which she so is!), and her job is to keep me outta trouble, make me feel like the most important and cherished person in the world, and make stuff all better. If we don’t do our jobs, this whole kinky house of cards comes crashing down.

“O-hhh!-kay.”

“Can we go get you cleaned up, or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Clean-hhh-please.” I wanted to be clean, and I wanted my diaphragm to stop cramping.

“Using your word like a big girl … O, don’t you go making that face again. I’m just teasing my little girl. C’mon.”

We got up, and she started taking us toward the guest bathroom, and did I panic? Of course not. I just … panicked. “No!” Did someone shout? Wasn’t me. Really.

“Daffy! What has gotten into you?”

“Not in there!”

“What’s wrong with …”

I’ve been cataloguing Mary’s faces for as long as I’ve known her. The one she made when she abruptly left her sentence incomplete was first observed on a hiking trail way back when we were newly dating. As it’s discoverer, I was entitled to name it, and I dubbed it the ew-my-sock-is-wet face. Little did I know then that all these years later I would discover a subspecies, Mary’s why-is-my-sock-wet-indoors-where-there-should-be-no-wetness face, and in rapid succession, another cousin, Mary’s o-that’s-why-my-sock-is-wet face. To her credit, she was handling the whole situation much better than me, and I’m know far and wide as a good situation handler (who is also sometimes a runaway hot mess on wheels).

Mary turned to me, put a hand on each of my shoulders, leaned forward to kiss my forehead, and said nothing. She just kissed me, and hugged me, and made her you’re-a-lot-of-work-sometimes-and-I-love-you-even-more-for-it face. It’s a very reassuring face.

And me? I made very grownup, all-is-well-nothing-to-see-hear whimpering sounds as she walked me to the bathroom.

It was a crime scene: there was the puddle where my pride drowned in what appeared to be an accident (where are the pun police when you need them?). But there was the rug folded up out of the way, suggesting the wetter wanted to make clean up easy, a sure sign of premeditation proving the accident was staged. The charge: reckless indifference to one’s own sense of adulthood, and I was already punishing myself way more than the criminal justice system ever could.

And there was Mary ‘Poirot’ Taylor, one arm around my shoulder, surveying the scene and making mental notes to follow up on at the inquest. But for now, she looked down at me – me, who was trying to look everywhere but her eyes – smiled a smirk, and said, “I think I see what kind of accident this was.”

“(Sound of me exercising my right to stay silent).”

“Wait for me,” she said and kissed my forehead again. And as I was waiting, to my surprise, there I was in the mirror, having not actually shrunken down to two inches tall but merely feeling like it. “Why don’t you step into the tub,” Mary said when she returned with paper towels, cleaner, and a plastic grocery sack already containing one said paper towel.

“I can clean it up,” I said, now feeling more mortified at how mortified I’d been and the scene (and puddle) I’d made.

“If I can clean you up, I think I can manage a tile floor. I already got the trail you left in the hallway. Tub,” she said and held my hand as I stepped over the side. It only took her a moment, and she laid the rug back out. She got the stool she started keeping in that bathroom to sit when she gives me baths (cuz she likes giving me baths), and ageplay aside, I like it when pretty women rub me all over with soapy hands. Sometimes they do stuff under the water you can’t get away with on TV. True story.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Little girls don’t need to be sorry for having potty accidents,” she replied with a poorly disguised chuckle. “But if you mean for scaring the crap out of me when you came into my office and started crying like someone died, I forgive you; over and done with. I have a little girl to clean up. Arms up.” She got my shirt off and tossed it in the corner. “That was an awfully big accident. You musta been holding it for so long. You shoulda come and gotten me if you didn’t wanna use the potty all by your lonesome.”

My brain drowned out the particulars of her monologue with white noise as she peeled my wet leggings down, thinking instead about how it was only a matter of seconds until …

“… just may not be ready for … Daphne Ann, are these my panties?”

“(Sniff!) I’m sorry.” I’ve yet to begin cataloguing all the faces I make, but if I ever get around to it, I shall name that one my I-make-very-bad-choices-sometimes-but-please-scold-me-later-cuz-right-now-I’ll-start-crying-so-hard-all-over-again face.

Mary stood up, put her hand on my chin, made me look her in the eye (so mean!), and said to me, “You are such a handful.” And she kissed me! “You make the days fun.” And she did it again!

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to make it fun?”

“Didn’t mean to have a meltdown. I just …” And she did it again! She’s very forward.

“It’s okay, Daffodil. Little girls get upset sometimes when they don’t mean to. Step out.” I did, and my wet yoga pants and her wet panties joined my shirt in the corner. I stood there naked, got a good look at the wet spot I’d made on Mary’s jeans (who even wears pants with buttons anymore? I worry about her sometimes), and she ran a tub. I sat down in it, and Mary wasted no time in getting the sponge soapy and rubbing it up and down my back. That … always relaxes me.

“I was trying to surprise you.”

“It was quite a surprise,” she chuckled. “And what a nice surprise it would’ve been if you hadn’t had a potty accident, my little girl showing me she can wear big girl undies and keep them dry.”

“Mary,” I chuckled back.

“Was wearing my underwear your way of saying you wanna be just like me when you grow up?”

“That part was just for comedic effect … and yes to what you said too.” But really just comedic effect and to make it even more surprising. Pretty sure I succeeded on both counts.

“But clearly,” Mary said as her sponge hand parted my thighs, “you’re not ready for big girl undies yet.”

“Marrrry.”

“Whose puddle did I just clean up? Right in front of the potty. You got so close and just couldn’t hold it anymore. After a week in diapers, I think you just weren’t ready to switch right back to underoos. Is that what happened?”

“I just wanted to surprise you for Valentine’s Day.”

“… By peeing your pants?”

“By letting you take care of me. I know how much you like it when … you know. … If you make me say it, I’ll … splash or something.” Let the world observe that there is a difference between being little and acting little. I acted for Mary’s benefit. I am not a little girl. I acted, I was clearly miscast for the role, tears ensued, and if the casting director (and screenwriter/director/producer) weren’t also me, I’d blame her. Debacle! Ignominy! Her fault! My fault! Clearly my range as an actress has limitations.

“So your plan was to …”

“Pretend to have an accident, pretend to get upset, and let you make it all better. I’m sorry I messed it up. It’s just … you said you wanted an experience instead of a present and …”

“Hey, look at me. I see my little girl who had herself an accident; got very, very upset; and now she’s sitting in the bathtub, and I’ll make it all better if she’ll let me. Will you let me?”

O gawd! Mary’s I-love-you-let-me-help face! Her eyes are so big and earnest and her smile is to soft and genuine … “Mhmm.”

“Then you stop being sorry for upsetting yourself. Those kinds of accidents happen too.” Yeah, about that – I am kinda an expert at those kinds of accidents. Who needs to go to a haunted house on Halloween when they can just be left to their own thoughts and devices? I can freak myself out so good it’s bad (very, very bad). Really.

“And,” my Mary said to me, “I’m going to take such good care of you tonight.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

“I’m gonna get you all clean, and then we’ll go upstairs and get you into fresh pampers.”

For the records, I embarked upon my bad idea knowing that would happen and was willing to make the sacrifice. It’s Valentine’s Day. I suffer for my love.

“And,” she continued, “we’ll get you in your footie pajamas. And after I change into some clothes you didn’t get piddle on, we’ll order dinner and dessert.” Ooo, restaurant cake. I feel better already. “Your ears just moved.”

“What?”

“I said dessert, and I swear your ears moved.”

“Heehee! Did not.”

“Did so. Pie – they did it again!”

“Heehee hmmmm. Thanks for making me laugh.”

“I love making you laugh.”

“Thanks for not getting mad about me wetting your underwear … and getting your jeans wet.”

“Just part of having a little girl who’s in and out of diapers as much as you.”

“Marrryyy!”

“Look up for me. There’s my pretty girl. So much prettier without those tear streaks though. Close your eyes and lemme wash those away.”