Drunk Man

(A lady stands over a nursery cot and whispers softly to the swaddled occupant in slumber.)

‘Twas the night before Christmas that I found you. You were in a terrible state; stinking drunk in an alleyway and unable to fend for yourself. It seems you had fallen over in to a dustbin whilst trying to urinate against the wall. I heard the clamour from my bathroom window as I prepared for bed and arrived to find you upside down in the dustbin with your flies undone and your little cock hanging out. Quite simply, you were pissed and you had pissed yourself. It was a pathetic specimen of manhood, indeed, and a quite disgusting sight for a lady to witness. You were so very weak and helpless, a very vulnerable young man, and it was a blessing that I found you when I did and decided to take you in hand.

I decided to take care of you there and then, in the cold dark night as you kicked your legs and tried to right yourself, with your shrivelled manhood dangling uselessly. I decided to take you in to my custody, for your own safety and for your own good. I could have called the police and had you thrown in cell, you know. After all, you were drunk and disorderly and that is a criminal offence. Of course, at this time of year, at Christmas time with its carousing and over-indulgence, the police are far too busy dealing with other delinquents. So, I made a citizen’s arrest. I took you in to custody.

I pulled you out of that filthy dustbin by your ankles and dragged you along the footpath and in to my home. By the time we reached the door your trousers were around your ankles as were your underpants. I saw everything, every little thing about you, and in graphic detail: your mouth dribbling, your willy leaking, your bottom cheeks flushed red from the cold and grazed from the rough ground.

You really did need me to take charge. You obviously had no self-control. You were in a shocking state and I took care of you. I cleaned you up like a baby. And for that you should be very grateful, indeed. You had wet yourself and you had been sick over your shirt. So, I stripped you naked in the hallway and I disposed of your soiled clothes in a dustbin bag to be put out with the rubbish.

Incapable, incoherent, incontinent, in my care and control…

You were flailing, moaning and groaning, trying to communicate but not making any sense. You did not know where you were or what had become of you. But you did feel the nappy going on, did you not? And the plastic pants? And you used them and very quickly and very thoroughly too. You kept on wetting yourself throughout the night and I changed your nappies time and time again.

Obviously, you needed to be kept in nappies because you were making a mess of yourself just as you needed to be pacified because you were hurting yourself. So, I swaddled you in the nappy and soothed you with the dummy, as any mother would. And then I confined you in a makeshift cot in the box room to keep you safe. I used my nylon stockings to tie your hands together, to tether them out of the way to stop you fighting the nappies. And finally, I smothered you in a knitted blanket to warm you and hold you in the cot.

I nursed you through the night with nappy changes, soapy sponge washes and bottle feeds. You were terribly dehydrated from the alcohol sickness so it was easy to get you to latch on to the nipple, the rubber nipple of the baby bottle, that is, and you greedily guzzled down the milky liquid. Indeed, you cried and grabbed for your next bottle just as a hungry baby would for its hourly feed. And then you felt very, very content and very, very sleepy. The sickness and the crying stopped and the world outside faded away and suddenly, overwhelmingly, the most important thing in your life became your mummy and the teat, did it not?

Of course, you had to be nappied, restrained, pacified, drugged even. This is all for your own good. Mummy always knows what is best for her baby. I had to drug you otherwise you would have put up a fight and tried to escape and I cannot have that happen, not ever, my little one.

And when you did fall in to this deep, deep sleep, I telephoned my friends, my three lovely lady friends, to share the the good news. I told them how I had saved you from yourself, from indulgence and degradation, and how you were reborn, a newborn, my first baby. And I now have a very special Christmas gift for us all. A Christmas baby!

As it is Christmas and you are the new baby, I have decided to call you Chrissy. Yes, my little Baby Chrissy. A Christmas baby is a very special baby. And there will be so many Christmas gifts for the newborn.

My lady friends cannot wait to see you. In fact, they will be here within the hour, bearing gifts for the new arrival. There will be so many homecoming presents for the new baby, the new nursery and the new mummy. I am particularly excited about the baby dress sets, the knits, lace, satin and frillies. You will look simply adorable.

I imagine there will be quite a few squabbles over you. You see, I am not the only one who wants her special baby. It is a lady’s natural maternal instinct, after all. But we independent career women do things our own way, on our own terms. And though I am willing to share my find somewhat, it shall be made perfectly clear that ultimately you are my baby and I am in charge. Yes, there will be many ladies visiting us, and there will be outings to ladies too, in a Silver Cross pram!

And I shall tell these ladies, ‘Go! Get one of your own! Get out on alleyway patrol! Look out for a drunk staggering home late at night. Find a young man who cannot take his drink. Arrest him. Take him in to custody. It is all for his own good.’

You will never escape the ladies. They are everywhere, just waiting for you, waiting to get their hands on you. There will always be a lady to keep an eye on you: to change your nappies, to feed you, to bathe you, to play with you, and to keep you in your place. The first year is a very intensive period of training for a new baby. Your nursery routine will be very carefully controlled indeed.

I should say that I know who you are or rather who you were. You see, I found all your personal details in your wallet, in your mobile phone and in your briefcase in your car. Yes, I have your car keys. I have everything I need, everything I need to know about you and your past and who you were and what you were before I found you. And you were indeed a very successful young commodities broker in the city, though with more money than sense, in my opinion. Well, all that has gone now and you have a new life now; a new future with me, as my baby. You are to call me Mummy. You are Mummy’s little baby, Baby Chrissy.

Do you hear me, Baby Chrissy? Do you hear Mummy? Is Mummy telling you fairy tales; tales you cannot understand? Is it all too much, too soon, too much too soon for you? That is why you need to sleep, little one. Let the drugs work, to make you forget. Forget all the fairy tales of the life that someone else once lived. All that you need is here, Chrissy, with me, your Mummy and with all the ladies that you could ever dream of.

Oh, I see that you have wet your nappy again. Mummy will change it for you. Renappied and reborn … Happy Christmas, Baby Chrissy!