“Package here for you,” said the clerk at the student mail center. “Sorry it took a while. We’ve had some delayed mail.”
Little did she know the hidden truth to her comment. After two decades of delayed “male,” my package had finally arrived.
For once since my transition, I was grateful to attend a women’s college, where the men’s bathrooms are almost always empty. I had a whole row of immaculate porcelain urinals waiting for me to grace them with my urination celebration. But I wasn’t anticipating immediate success. From past attempts at childcare, I knew peeing takes practice, and even though I wasn’t technically a baby, I brought a change of pants just in case.
But I surprised myself with a robust (yet controlled) stream of liquid confidence. I was filled with pride and delighted with the novelty of it all, like a toddler who just succeeded at potty-training. Except I was twenty.
After I flushed (another surprise—who knew that urinals flush?), I decided to rinse my new EZP out in the sink. Cleanliness is just another benefit to having a removable dick, right? I rubbed my new package down with watery soap from the dispenser. Then the door opened and a professor entered the student mail room men’s bathroom for the first time in history. He looked at me holding my disembodied (and squeaky clean) dick in the sink. His cheeks turned the attractive pink color of the urinal cake I’d just pissed on. He ducked into a stall and I slipped my EZP back into my pants and made a run for it.
The fact that even this nightmarish interaction did little to diminish my excitement speaks loads to the dysphoria-alleviating effects of the EZP. I admit that we’ve had an open relationship, and I’ve experimented with other prosthetics on the side. Nothing else has come close to the EZP. Needing to wear a harness or adhesive glue triggers my dysphoria, and it’s the only STP I’ve found that sits comfortably and realistically in my boxer briefs without needing to be secured.
The EZP’s compact size is one of its most convenient attributes. It turns out that a well-endowed STP is a recipe for disaster. During my experimental phase, I saved up for a gargantuan STP from a different company. When I brought it through pre-flight security, a TSA officer found it and waved it around for everybody to see.
So on the way back home, I tried wearing it through security instead of packing it in my carry-on. The body scanners picked up a discrepancy. I was soon ushered into a private room where four burly TSA officers felt up my massive dick in disbelief. “Is this all you, man?” one of them asked. Long story short, eventually I was forced to disclose my trans status. Never again will I try rocking a seven-inch dong on a flight (you might say I’ve been less cocky since then). The whole experience felt like a violation, and it ultimately ruined my relationship with that STP.
I returned with a renewed sense of gratitude to my original STP, the more pragmatic EZP. I wear it all day and all night, although I no longer wash it in the sinks of public bathrooms. I even shower with it propped between my legs, and I stuff it in a sock safety-pinned to my trunks when I go swimming.
After some trials and tribulations, it turns out the EZP is the only package for me.