I’ve been to baths all over Auckland with half-naked women.

No, it is not about sex; it’s about drugs. Joking. And thanks to Lance Armstrong, everyone knows about sports drugs and drug testing, but you may not have realized that some drug testing involves urinalysis. And I have done this for a job.

Now you wonder, who would want to do a job that involves watching people pee? Isn’t it kinda gross? Well, the obvious answer aside, people who love ‘water sports’ (boom tish) are usually just sports fans or people desperate for funding. I fell into the last category.

In 2001 I had moved to Auckland, but still had no job, so a friend who was already working on drug testing suggested that I try to work as a chaperone, the person who hangs out with the athlete and actually makes him produce the sample. . . I really wanted to earn some money and was only slightly alarmed to be so intimately involved with strangers. Suffice it to say, you must be very comfortable with the human body and its various functions.

Despite being told that it was quite easy, I found the procedures to be innumerable and complex. A missing signature or an incorrectly completed form, and a guilty athlete could successfully appeal. He wasn’t saving lives, but he didn’t want to cover it up. On the other hand, the low pay was not very motivating and the prospect of, say, a day in the back blocks of Auckland watching the bikers for $ 30 was not attractive. Still, it was cash and a tour.

This is how it worked. Once the event was over and your team leader identified the athlete to be tested, you introduced yourself as the chaperone, read the rules, offered them a bottled drink, and informed them that they had one hour to report to the station. of tests. This gave them time to relax, rehydrate, and hopefully be ready to sample.

After these formalities, the athlete generally ignored you and you followed him, trying not to get depressed or thinking about the wine, until he deigned to let you know he was ready to go. What could take hours, then: boredom.

You were left alone on the perimeter of your family and friends as the kid who was not chosen for the team, feeling ridiculous with your clipboard and a cooler bag full of Gatorade. (Although this kid who got confused and asked for an autograph once cheered me up a bit.)

An hour or so wandering around, listening to people talk about the finer points of women’s hockey could be overwhelming, so when you shoved the athlete into the bathroom you weren’t even thinking about the extreme intimacy factor, you just wanted them to pee. . Immediately!

When you saw an athlete urinate, you had to see the urine. pass your body. This is because since the dawn of, well, drug testing, athletes have been discovering ways to avoid it, and one of the ways is to get a container of someone else’s pee and hide it under clothing.

That’s why you couldn’t lose sight of them, and also why they had to remove their bottom clothing and roll up their sleeves while urinating. So many rules and so many situations where it is not possible to follow them! For example, in a portaloo it was impossible to see someone urinating into a cup when you were pressed against them, nose to nose. Watch? Uncomfortable.

The little talk was complicated. I’m sociable, but in these situations the talk usually revolved around how the athlete had performed, how difficult it was to urinate when commanded, how it could be easier if I turned on the faucet … maybe if we just kept talking. about urinating … ‘. At the time, I was usually the only one ready to pee. Meanwhile they squatted over the bowl and I tried not to LOOK, obviously, but I had to look!

Some athletes would undress completely, and in 2001, being the Brazilian fashion, I saw a lot of pubic hair. Yes, a complete Brazilian was quite amazing in 2001 because I remember the only girl whose vulva was completely naked. And that was shocking!

Yet among all the episodes of accompanying glamorous but slightly deranged bodybuilders, or hanging out with the New Zealand Warriors in one of their training sessions, my first job still stands out.

Already nervous about filling things up, I was told it was a Paralympic shooting event, so there were athletes from all over the world with a variety of abilities. This was like having sex for the first time and expecting a basic missionary, but being told to do reverse cowgirl with a twist!

I had questions. What to do if the athlete had a catheter and bag? Can I just let them pour the contents into the plastic cup? Or did I have to have the bag replaced and urinate again? There seemed to be endless permutations and combinations and opportunities for me to say something offensive to a disabled person.

Fortunately I avoided that; my Polish wife was in a wheelchair, she had no legs and did not speak English. At the testing station, her English-speaking teammate informed us that she was having her period, so she was unable to give a sample. Chances of embarrassment, not to mention complexity, increased a couple of points. Blood in the urine! Noooooo! (It was a good try, but this didn’t stop a drug test.)

We went to the disabled bathroom, with a sinking heart. Not only was this already complicated, but he couldn’t even speak to this woman. My ‘small talk super power’ would now be useless.

I watched in amazement as she pulled up the chair next to the toilet. He took off his pants and then I could see his body ending at the top of his thighs. Still in her underwear, she got up from the side of the chair and sat on the side of the toilet seat, her back to me. This was also against the rules, since I was supposed to be able to see what he was doing. But enforcing this rule seemed impossible. She took off her underwear and then the waiting began.

As she shifted on the toilet seat, muttering to herself as she tried to remove the plastic cup from the wrapper, I felt helpless. However, despite his lack of English, I chatted quietly and turned on the sink faucet, which made no difference. After a long time, he gave up and we went back to the testing station to wait. But my test virginity was gone and I felt a little more in control.

Fortunately, her husband showed up and she agreed to try again if she could come with us; It made her feel more comfortable and luckily she spoke a little English. After a few minutes of chatting with her husband about peeing, drug testing, Poland, Auckland, anything to ignore the half-naked woman sitting on the toilet, we finally achieved success.

Thus began my first week in Auckland. In a disabled toilet at a shooting range, watching a legless woman urinate into a cup, while chatting with her husband.

Things could only get better.

© Cynthia Smith, 2016