He’s a banker. Total professional. Dressed to the nines—pressed shirts, not a hair out of place. Friendly, funny, kind. The whole package. Good job, owns his house, nice car… and cute.
I’m thinking: finally. I did it. I found a good one.
And then it comes out.
“I like to be taken care of when I get home from work.”
Okay… I can work with that.
“Like dinner made? House clean?” Sure, no problem.
“No… like you take care of me. Change me. Feed me. All of that.”
“…Change you?”
“Yes. I like to wear diapers.”
Oh.
At this point, my kids have been out of diapers for a while—and I am not about to start changing a grown man who is fully capable of using a toilet.
I graciously passed on the opportunity.
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