I hopped out of bed right at 7:00 am. My life partner, Pat, was still curled up under the covers, with a cute little smile on zher face. Pat’s arm was wrapped around our adopted African child, Kanye--named for the the 51st President of the United States, Kanye West. I had had myself sterilized, of course, and Pat was trans, so adopting was a no- brainer. I smiled, loving the way that Kanye’s dark skin contrasted with Pat’s cream colored, slightly hairy forearm. But ah, no time for sentiments. I had to get ready for work!
I took a quick shower and got dressed, carefully feeding my legs through the adult diapers I now had to wear. Ever since Pat’s surgery, zhe preferred to be the dominant one, and I was cool with it, especially since I had read that catching helped men like myself expose their more vulnerable side. Besides, penetrating had always felt a bit uncomfortable to me. It felt sexist somehow.
So, as much as we were enjoying ourselves, I was stretched just a tad too much. Believe it or not, this was actually a good thing. It showed me that continence privileged people operated along invisible power structures that denied opportunity to those who were continence challenged. I was glad to no longer benefit from that hierarchy, and diapers were actually far more comfortable than briefs.
After I finished dressing, I got the Mx. Coffee fired up and brewed two cups of gluten-free joe. Pat had just woken up, and zhe was stumbling sleepily towards me, grasping for the cup of coffee. Zhe took the cup in one hand, while running the other one through zher tousled, neon pink hair in a way that just melted my heart.
“Hey, John,” Pat smiled at me.
“Hey, Life Partner. Do you consent to a kiss?” I asked. Zhe nodded.
“I give formal consent.” Pat said.
I grinned and leaned over to give zher a peck on the cheek. Pat’s raspy stubble gave me a little thrill. Unfortunately, I had been born with heterosexual tendencies, so naturally I was pretty excited when Pat decided to begin zher FTM surgery while continuing to identify as the female gender. Pat’s shoulders were really getting broad with the HRT, and zhe was growing hairier by the day! Zhe had also gotten very chubby, so it was really a humbling opportunity for me.
It wasn’t until Pat’s body started to radically change that I realized how badly white supremacist ideals of beauty had shaped me. I felt terrible when zher rolls of fat had hurt our most intimate moments. I mean, who was I to impose exclusionary standards on the love of my life? But honestly, zher sex change and weight gain was the best thing to happen to us. I was finally at the point where zher body was a turn-on, and it felt good—almost holy—to overcome my innately bigoted biology.
“Is Kanye up yet?” I asked.
“No,” zhe said, “I couldn’t bear to wake hen. Hen looked so cute there sleeping on the bed. Kanye will get up when hen’s ready. It wouldn’t be right to impose Western time standards on hen, especially when hen’s only been in this country for five years.”
I nodded. In some ways it was hard having an adopted child. Kanye was more impulsive than I had been, and hen definitely had a lower time preference and little tolerance for school. We encouraged it, though, because it was important to both of us that Kanye grew up free from the institutional violence and racism that had blighted this country for so long.
“Well, I gotta get to work,” I said, checking the time on my iPhone 37. “Permission to kiss you goodbye?”
“Consent not granted. Sorry, John, but you know how too much physical contact with a binary male can trigger me.” Pat said.
“No problem. I respect your boundaries.” It was already getting on near seven thirty. I had to get going or I’d be late.
II. On the Way to Work
Upon adopting Kanye, Pat and I had decided that it would be best to move into a more diverse part of town. It was important to us that Kanye be able to grow up and see people who looked like hen.
So, despite the higher levels of crime and general state of disrepair, I still preferred to walk to work. Owning a car had gotten too expensive, and it was a carbon tax write-off not to have one. Besides, it was good exercise.
I saw an urban teen walking toward me. Normally, I said “hello” to everyone, but part of me wanted to cross the street. It wasn’t a good thought to have, but he definitely looked a little angry, or suspicious, or something. Still, I suppressed the thought and kept walking. After all, prejudging was just short step away from prejudice.
“Sup nigga?” the youth asked, while reaching into his baggy pants and pulling out what must have been an assault weapon. He pointed the gun at me, and I felt a little feces slip into my diaper.
After former President Chelsea Clinton had overturned the Second Amendment, only the protected classes were allowed to own firearms--at least up until historic racism and privilege had been overcome. Unfortunately, we still had a long way to go.
“H-h-hello,” I stammered. “Is there a-anything I could h-h-help you with?”
“Gimme yo money!” he said, gesturing with the gun. I felt bad for him. Underneath the baggy clothing and reek of weed, this poor youth was only a child.
“Here,” I said, and handed him my wallet. He started rifling through it with one hand while keeping the gun trained on me with the other.
“I can’t use dis, where da greens at? Iz all creds. Wut yo numbaz?”
“Numbers?” I asked, drawing a blank. Was he asking me out on a date? “I fully support polyamory and polysexuality, but you have to understand that I’m in a civil union contingent upon there being only two actors present. It’s renegotiable, but I’ll have to consult with my SO first.”
“Wut da fuck chu talkin about? Yo pin, nigga! Fo’ yo akown!”
“Oh, right! I am so sorry.” I said. “It’s one-four-eight-eight.”
“One-fo-eigh’-eigh’! Now don’t yo go kanslin yo akown! I know whe’ yo lif, nigga!” he shouted at me, and waved the gun in my face. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling awful that circumstances had forced this poor youth to act like this.
When I finally opened my eyes, he was gone. I stood there, shaking a little. It was terrible that he had had to act that way, but my real fear was that my use of verbal privilege when referring to my civil union would only further contribute to this youth’s oppression. On the other hand, he had called me the “N” word. Did that mean that he saw me as one of his own? One could only hope.
Oh, and I was definitely going to need to change my diaper when I got to work. Good thing there were spares in my fanny pack.
III. At the Office
I heard a knock on my door. It was 2:30 in the afternoon, and I’d been looking forward to this meeting all day.
“Come in,” I said.
A tall, biologically male, cisgender white person stepped into the office. He sat down in front of my desk, and had to squeeze his large frame into the chair. Underneath his dress shirt, it looked like he lifted weights. Didn’t he know that physical strength was privilege? I hated to admit it, but I felt a little intimidated. This guy was a walking microagression.
“So, Pete,” I drawled, trying to inject some confidence into my voice, “do you know why you are here?”
“No,” he said. Monosyllabic, like some sort of dumb, blond beast.
“We’ve been monitoring your interactions with your coworkers. Tell me, Do you know the racial and gender distribution of this company?” I asked, steepling my fingers. This was going to be good.
“No,” Pete sighed.
“We’re operating very close to demographic standards. Our workers are 51% female, 49% male. Of those, 14.5% are African American, 1.3% Amerindian, 33.1% Asian, 20% white, 28% Hispanic, and 3.1% Transracial. Diversity is our strength.” Now he was really going to get it.
“Okay, so? What’s wrong? Listen, I’m committed to diversity too, but there’ some work I need to get done.”
“Well, that’s the problem. Your work record is fine, but your interaction with coworkers is not. Are you aware of how you allocate your break time? Give me percents.”
“I don’t know. Mike and I take our breaks together, usually.”
“It’s good you’re telling the truth. Do you know what Mike is?”
“Yeah, he’s also a programmer,” Pete said, looking genuinely puzzled at my line of questioning. Did this piece of shit not even know what he had done? Could we have made so little progress?
“Yes, he’s a programmer, but he’s also a WHITE MAN!” I shouted, and a little spittle came out of my mouth. “You’ve been exclusively spending over 95% of your allocated break time in the presence of another white male. Do you realize how far off that is from our demographics standards?”
This time Pete didn’t have any laconic cowboy bullshit for me. His face went pale. He knew I had him.
“L-listen,” he stammered, “we just have the same job. I’m n-n-not hanging out with him because he’s white, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Our programming department is even closer to demographic ideal than the rest of our company. That’s no excuse.” I said, and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. I had him, and he knew it.
Pete stood up so fast that the chair fell to the ground behind him with a clashing bang. For a second he looked very tall and very angry. His face was a beet red and his shoulders were so broad they filled the room. It felt like the office itself darkened, and he loomed over me like some sort of demented troll.
I felt an ugly shiv of fear in my gut (and my diaper) but nothing came of it. Pete’s reason got the best of him, and he deflated. His shoulders sagged, and the color left his face.
He realized that there was no point fighting. Everything was documented, and we both knew he’d be dead in the next day or two. Racism was a capita l offense.
Sometimes, I loved my job.
IV. Ready for Bed
Pat, Kanye, and myself were all laying in bed together, going over the day. My head was resting on Pat’s broad, post-mastectomy chest. Pat had wrapped zher strong, muscular arms around me, and Kanye was sitting at the foot of the bed, playing on hen’s iPhone.
It felt good. It felt safe. Just a typical family decompressing after a hard day.
“So, I called this guy, Pete, into my office. You wouldn’t believe how scared he was. He tried calling me, ‘sir,’ and everything, but he was just a closeted bigot. Spent all his break time in the presence of other whites,” I said, spitting out ‘white’ like a curse word. For all the bigotry and hate still in the world today, it practically was.
“That’s terrible,” Pat murmured in my ear. “I can’t believe we’ve made so little progress in all this time.
“Yeah, how white people live with themselves, I have no idea.”
“So what did you do next?” Zhe asked.
“I told him we had documentation. The color drained right out of his face. He begged and bribed me not to take any action. But he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with!” I said, chuckling. That wasn’t exactly how it went, but I had learned a long time ago that perception was reality. What else could I say? I wanted Pat to think I was cool.
“No. You stood by your principles, that’s what matters. Is the State going to Release him?”
“Yeah, should be only a couple days. We have all the right documentation and forms filled out, and these charges are really serious,” I said.
Pat laughed, “That’s great!” Pat nudged Kanye, with zher foot. “Your zaza’s a hero!” Kanye looked up briefly from hen’s iPhone and smiled at me.
“That good, Zaza,” Kanye said, and returned to whatever hen had been doing on the phone.
“I think you’ve earned a little reward, John,” Pat said, and I could hear the mischievous smile in zher voice.
“Did it come in the mail?” I asked, and squirmed with anticipation.
“It did,” Pat said, and opened the night stand drawer. Zhe pulled out a massive dildo that was at least the size (and color) of a large eggplant. “We’re going to have fun tonight.”
“Kanye, do you want to join in or are you going to sit in the Watching Chair?” I asked.
“I wan’ watch!” Kanye said, putting his phone down. Hen climbed his tiny frame into the Watching Chair. It stood over the bed like a diving board, giving the person sitting there a full view of things.
The social workers had impressed upon Pat and me the importance of Kanye being exposed to alternative forms of sex at an early age. It would help prevent hen from developing any bigoted notions of “normal” human relations. We both had felt a little uncomfortable about it at first, but Kanye seemed to enjoy it, and in the end, that was all that really mattered.
Pat ripped off my diaper with aggressive abandon, while I began the breathing exercises that would help loosen me up, and, boy, was I going to need them for tonight. We’d never played with something this big before, and it was definitely going to broaden my horizons. For better or for worse.
It was in that brief period of lucidity before lust completely overtook me, I realized that this was what I loved so much about Pat. Zhe helped push me past old boundaries, and preconceived notions of what was possible, both in bed and in life. Together, we were always moving forward, constantly progressing.
This was going to be the perfect ending to a near-perfect day. I just hoped that I’d be able to walk tomorrow.