Posted by: John Gholson
Everyone has their personal creep-out zone. For many, the mere sight of a friendly clown sends a cold shock straight down the spine. For others, lifelike porcelain dolls might be just the trigger they need to draw their heart up firmly into their throat. For me, there’s nothing more demonic, nothing more unspeakably unsettling than an adult baby.
I’m an open-minded dude, but there’s something profoundly wrong with a fully-formed adult who can’t function in life without pretending to be a giant baby in their spare time. I can’t even begin to fathom the psychological damage at work to make a grown-up want to drink warm Simulac from a bottle and poop their pants again (and again). Oftentimes when dealing with fetishes, the fixation comes from something that brings someone a great deal of comfort, and I can understand that concept, but can anyone actually remember being a baby? Oftentimes, adult babies are like infantile drag queens — not content to just be pampered by a mommy figure, but acting out as some kind of Super Baby, seemingly determined to out-baby a real baby, complete with giant adult-sized bonnets and lots of “ga ga goo goo” talk. They’re not like babies in a maternity ward; they’re like babies in a Warner Brothers cartoon. Only, they’re adults. Weird.