Part 3

Hands shook me, firm but gentle, stirring me from the goopy fog that my mind had become. And then I heard a female voice, commanding, firm, and precise yet warm and calming. Through my mental fog, I could make out nothing save her tone.

Again, the hands shook me. I coughed, moved onto my elbow, and sat. The voice solidified."You okay?"

"Huh, what, okay?" My eyes popped open, the goop more-or-less gone. I lay near the curb on Greek Row. It was still dark, but the sky in the east was growing lighter, so it was way late, after four. And I was eyeball to eyeball with a lanky female cop with blonde hair, angular cheekbones, and thin lips who squatted in front of me. I tried to stand, but she placed her hand on my shoulder to keep me down.

"Were you hit, or did you fall down? Broken bones or anything?"

"Don't think so...." I ran through a mental checklist, micro-rotating my neck and arms and torso. No pain, but my chest felt odd and my crotch sticky. "Think I'm okay."

"Can you stand?"

"I'll try," I said.

My brain throbbed. My throat was sandpaper and eyeballs flypaper. Too much beer and blow, and I'm old, can't keep up with the young bucks. But I stirred, fighting a massive headache. I've been hungover, so I knew I'd survive, but man, this was wicked.

I pulled my knees to my chest.

Electricity bolted through me, and I was awake, bounding to my feet, freaked.

Because I had tits.

"The fuck happened?" I asked, padding my hips and chest and crotch to confirm. And sure enough, my Kibbles and Bits were missing, and I had a c-cup.

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"Anonymous safety pickup call," she said, answering the question she assumed I asked, her head tilted and confusion in her eyes at me swiping at my privates, unaware of my predicament, being a dude with a vagina.

And then I groaned. "Crap, am I going to jail, public intox?" I deflated, my shoulders slumping. "Stellar end to a crappy day."

But the cop shook her head, explaining. The previous year, campus police cut a deal with the Greek houses. They reported drunk guests and dumped them on the curb. The police took them to a specially appointed dorm wing to sober-up. No questions, no charges.

"Cool," I said, relieved. But without warning, I began zoning again: legs shakey, brain woozy, with me almost nodding off on my feet.

She grabbed me, supporting, her face filled with concern. "Sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," I said, weaving as she steered me towards the roadside cop car, "just drunk as fuck."

The officer stopped, pointing to a pair of boxer-briefs that had been balled under me. "Yours?"

Curious, I leaned over. Joe Boxers, State logo, with 'USG.' written on the band in black Sharpie.

USG: Ulysses S. Garrity. My name. My underwear.

I reached to pick them up, but a realization stopped me.

Me a girl. Missing underwear. Being drunk, but not "pass-out" drunk, and yet passing out black-out hard. In Squee's room, alone with two guys, the door locked behind us.

I turned to the officer, at once mad and creeped and vulnerable as a child. "I think... I may have been roofied. I'm not positive, but..." I trailed off, feeling confused, and all alone.

She escorted me to the car, sitting me in the rear seat. I put my hands between my thighs to warm, feeling no cock, no balls, but a mound instead. I felt like crying.

But I didn't.

Because a cold rage shifted my focus from my transformation to my predicament. I sniffed like a raging bull.

Fuck PJ, fuck Squee, rapist shits. Using MY body, shooting THEIR filth into me, and then curbing me. Fuck them.

The officer slid behind the wheel, looking back at me, mic in hand. "Do you want to press charges?"

I snorted. "I want them bastards to rot in jail."