I wake up in the morning and immediately realise I'm wet again. It's warm and not all that unpleasant. There's the safety of my plastic pants. I listen. The house is all quiet still, it must be very early. Would I dare to.... unspoken longing, I don't even think it out in full. It's bad. Or is it? I'm wet anyway, I'm going to be found out again. There's no escape. Bedwetter! Bedwetter!! So why not enjoy it while the going is good? And suddenly the hot wetness spreads out inside my plastic pants, soaking the terry, flowing down my skinny boy's body, warming my bottom and tummy and everything inside my plastic pants, my safety, my saviour, it flows, how soft is the warm plastic now, it flows, it flows, it seems to flow forever. I'm Bedwetter, I'm Pisspants. I'm wet and I don't care. I'm wet and I love it.
Yet, vague guilt. I'll stop doing it when I'm fourteen, promise, but that's still a month away. For now, I'm just happy. There's that big smile on my face. I can feel it, and fall asleep again.