By Lawrence H. Levy
It was three months since I burned down my apartment house and Shelby dumped me. I spent my days at work and my nights getting majorly stoned on weed and “shrooms.” I was tapering down, getting almost back to normal, when my boss called me into his office to deliver the good news. My promotion was coming earlier than expected.
“All you need is the requisite urine test, and you’re good to go. They’ll be here in an hour.”
“Urine test?” I asked, trying hard not to sound concerned.
“Normal procedure. They just want to be sure they’re not welcoming a druggie to our management team. You’re not a druggie, are you, Kyle?” He laughed.
“Oh yeah, big time main-liner. That’s me.” I laughed with him but was scared shitless.
Not only was my promotion and job at stake but also any self respect I had left. I was just beginning to crawl out of the toilet and fate was trying to flush me back down. I went to Chad for advice. He was the biggest stoner I knew, and he was close by. He worked in the stock room.
“Chad, what do you do when you have to take a drug test?”
Chad jumped back, knocking over a stack of surge protectors. “We’re havin’ a drug test? Oh man, I am seriously fucked!”
I had my answer. I assured Chad that we weren’t. He was still so bummed out he had to take a smoke break, and it was obvious what he was going to smoke.
I called my buddy Clarence who I remembered had bragged once about beating the test. I told him my situation, and he said he had the perfect solution. He only lived ten minutes from work, so I took an early lunch and headed out.
Clarence had everything ready for me. “Everything” was a Whizzenator: a rubber penis that hid a rubber bulb inside which could hold a clean urine sample.
“The only problem is,” Clarence said, “I’m out of synthetic urine samples. You’re gonna have to get someone’s clean urine, and I’m definitely not that guy.”
I thanked Clarence and left. Clean urine wasn’t my only problem. Clarence was black, and even if the tester didn’t completely stand over me, whipping out a black cock could easily blow my cover. Blaming it on an unfortunate accident at a tanning salon might have worked, but I opted for something better.
I couldn’t spend the precious minutes I had on self image, so I pulled out the Whizzenator at Home Depot and showed the guy in the paint department.
“I need paint that will stick to this rubber, dry fast, and is the closest to flesh color that you can approximate.”
After staring at the black Whizzenator and then me, the paint guy had a wise ass, homophobic comment. “Ooo, I see we’ve been doing some role playing, Missy.”
There was no way I was gonna deal with this shit now. “Yeah, and I really love it,” I shot back. “So either bend over and join me or just give me the fuckin’ paint… please.”
I was soon driving back to work, the Whizzenator in the backseat on newspaper, drying from my hasty paintjob
“Kyle, you’ve got to be very careful about your next step,” a voice from my passenger seat warned me. I looked over and saw my PSD condition had conjured up former President Richard Nixon of Watergate fame. I was all ears. They didn’t call him Tricky Dick for nothing, and getting pointers from him could be very helpful.
“Trust no one. If you want things done right, do it yourself. Don’t make the mistake I made.” I knew he was referring to the guys who bungled the Watergate break-in and resulted in his being caught.
“The fewer people involved, the less chance anything will go wrong,” he cautioned me.
“Got it,” I said, focused on his every word.
“So, what’s your plan?”
“I need pure urine. I’m going to go to the straightest guy I know at work, look him right in the eye, and lie like a sonuvabitch.”
“That’s my boy!” Nixon shouted like a proud father. “You’re a natural!”
I already had my target picked out. Manju Banerji, a Hindu techie and a complete computer nerd who made Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg look like jocks. I found him in the back of the store on break getting his thrills by turbo boosting an old laptop to max-op speed. I hated to interrupt his orgasm, but I was on a mission.
“I need your piss, Manju.”
“Whatever for?” he naturally asked.
“I’m working on an inexpensive water regeneration system that will turn pee into drinking water, and I need different samples.”
Nixon blanched. “What genius! Why didn’t I think of that?””
Manju stared at me for what seemed forever. “Make sure you scan for microbes at the end. That’s where most systems screw up.”
“Definitely. Wouldn’t dream of doing it any differently.”
A little later Manju emerged from the bathroom, his piss in a coffee cup with a smiley face on it. Just as he handed it to me, my boss walked by.
“Better down that coffee, Kyle. You’ve got your you-know-what in five.”
I made like I was toasting him with my coffee and almost fooled myself but pulled it away from my lips just in time. I went in the bathroom, filled the Whizzenator’s rubber bulb, thoroughly washed my hands, and I was ready. Manju insisted I return the cup to him. I did so reluctantly, making a mental note never to drink out of a smiley face cup at work ever again.
Nixon was glowing. “You have greatness in you, son. Mark my words. You will go far.”
It was time for my test, and I marched in to meet my destiny. It turned out the guy giving the test wasn’t very thorough, but who could blame him? I mean, watching guys whip it out for him every day couldn’t have been his original career goal. He gave me a quick onceover and allowed me enough slack to let the Whizzenator work its magic. I gave him Manju’s urine, and walked out with a definite hop in my step. I had won!
The next day, my boss took me aside. “Kyle, you have to take another urine test.”
Nixon quickly appeared with advice, “You need to come clean now, Kyle. If I had done that at the beginning, I would have never had to resign.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked as innocently as possible, totally ignoring Nixon.
“It’s not drugs or anything like that. The lab found an unusual amount of estrogen and progesterone in your urine. I mean, that amount is only present in guys who are going through hormone replacement therapy.”
“Hormone replacement therapy?”
“Guys who want to become girls. You know, transgender, transsexual, that kinda thing.”
“Holy shit!” screamed Nixon. “That Hindu nerd wasn’t getting laid, so he decided to switch teams!” He then sternly demanded, “Now, Kyle! Tell him the truth!”
I bowed my head and said, “I have a confession to make, sir.”
“Yes, Kyle, what is it?”
“I want,” I blurted out but couldn’t finish. “I want…”
”Yes, Kyle, what do you want?”
I looked right at him. “I want to be a woman.”
Then, my boss hugged me. Yes, hugged me! Apparently, he had a family friend who went through sexual reassignment surgery, and he was very sympathetic. He wished me good luck and assured me that he and the company would stand behind me no matter what my final decision about my sex would be.
A stunned Nixon followed me out of the office, singing my praises. “You were magnificent in there, Kyle. You’re a true artist!”
I turned to Nixon. “You know where you blew it, Dick? By resigning, you admitted guilt. Never end the lie, just extend it. Look at Bush and Cheney. They invaded Iraq. No matter how much proof surfaced that there never was evidence of weapons of mass destruction, they kept twisting the story, making up new things. And nothing happened to them. Even today tons of people still believe them.”
Nixon mused, “Maybe if I told ‘em Watergate was a reaction to a medical condition… Damn, Kyle, I wish I had you instead of that piss ant Haldeman.”
As I strutted off, Nixon gave me a standing ovation. I felt like I had finally seized control of my life, and I was on my way up the food chain. Now all I had to figure out was if I should inform my boss of my decision to stay a man before or after I grew tits.