I rewind the message. Dowdy clears his throat. "Mr. Tillmann, I applaud your move to sample urine." I replay the message repeatedly. Each time I listen, however, his speech only becomes clearer. "...Your move to sample urine." Surely this was a joke. After all, Dowdy and cohort Gordon Hintz have long been known to leave messages imploring me to pull my pants down or long, poker-voiced rave reviews of films like Jingle All the Way and Jungle to Jungle. But all pranks of the past were specifically designed to make me cringe. This last message, however, was frustratingly random. Also notable is the complete absence of a ridiculing tone. Was Dowdy simply being metaphoric? What had I done, I wondered. Or more specifically, what action of mine could have sent reverberations from Chicago to St. Paul? Did I drunkenly confess to Dowdy that I was no stranger to piss during my college years? But even if I did, that was long ago. Why would that savage fucker wait until now to drop the bomb?

I lived alone throughout school in single dorm rooms. I liked the privacy. I didn't have to worry about anyone else's farts, vomit, mastabatory habits, resin festivals, or tie hankies to the door knob. Living by yourself, you start to develop habits you otherwise may not have had. It's easier to become a freak when you don't have to worry about a jangling key chain penetrating a lock on the other side of the door. The first thing I did whenever I entered my private abode was strip naked. I don't think I spent more than a five minute stretch in those rooms with clothing on. I also started to apply Oxy 10 for extra-tight, zit-free skin and a thick layer of Carmex to my lips every night before bed. Inevitably, a few minutes after I'd don the benzoyl peroxide and mentholated petroleum jelly, I'd have to piss. And there is no man alive who wants to enter a communal bathroom with a crusty, white face and Vaseline lips, let alone pass a hot girl in the hall on the way.

As a solution, I'd grab the nearest soda or Blatz can and relieve myself in the opening. There's something perversely satisfying about feeling the warmth of your inner body climb up the side of an aluminum container. I was always careful to ensure that my member would not be threatened by sharp metal edges. I'd also have another can at the ready in case my bladder attempted to excrete more than 12 ounces. (The change-over maneuver requires well-tuned bladder musculature, but becomes rather facile with repetition.) Standard post-tap practice involved placing the soiled can in a far corner of the room for immediate disposal the next morning. But every once in awhile weariness got the best of me, and I'd place the can on top of my fridge before passing out.

One winter day, I nakedly buzzed about my room, dusting, polishing, and washing every surface and crevice in sight. I scrubbed the puke spots from all of yesterday's parties. It was well below zero outside but 90 inside. Small room, large furnace. Sweat poured from my head and spilled from my pits. I opened the cube refrigerator, pulled out a cold Dr. Pepper, and a stiff slice from Pizza Central. A CD blared as I sifted through the minutiae in my desk drawer. I jumped on my bed, looked at myself in the mirror, and played the air guitar. I leapt from the mattress, my sopping hair flicking perspiration everywhere, and, in a graceful, flowing move, picked up my can of Dr. Pepper and swung it to my lips.

The stale, salty taste made my body pucker. I looked down at the can that I had squirted in the previous evening. Wrong Dr. Pepper. I had tasted my piss for the first time, but it wasn't going down any further. My body wouldn't let it pass to my throat. The piss was locked in my mouth and I wanted to vomit. I couldn't even spit it back into the can, as I didn't want to return my lips to the place where they had lost their innocence. I covered my balls with a towel and ran to the bathroom where I spit for a good ten minutes and brushed my teeth four times.

Could this have been what Dowdy was referring to? I don't even think I ever told him about it. It's really not that big a deal I guess, but at the time, my friends in a neighboring dorm overheard an effeminate man we all knew was gay talking to himself in a stall when he thought he was alone. "Come on muscles," he reportedly whined. He groaned again before coaxing his stretched sphincter with "You can do it." I feared that if I told anyone about tasting my piss -- however inadvertent the initiation -- my tale, would enter the same shameful pantheon.

Whether Dowdy was fucking with me or not, however, there is no denying that urine consumption has had many proponents both currently and throughout history. Historically, people have used urine to sterilize wounds, clear up acne, boost the immune system, cure migraines, and stave off colds, among other things. Former Indian Prime Minister Moraji Desai drank two glasses of urine everyday and lived to the ripe age of 99. NASA has been developing equipment which could greatly extend space shuttle flight by filtering and recycling urine, perspiration, and other waste water. This method worked for a gilled Kevin Costner in Waterworld. I also remember seeing an afternoon talk show in which Julie from the old Love Boat (Lauren Tewes) denied that she drank the pee of a pregnant woman in order to lose weight. Maybe she really didn't do that, but the fact that the rumor even exists suggests that somewhere people have.

I am nagged by my assumption, however, that urine, while rich in melatonin and other substances, may be nothing more than a waste product. It certainly won't kill you but won't it make the kidneys work even harder because they'll have to excrete the same waste chemicals all over again. But what if it is beneficial? What if a person really can improve their health and attractiveness by knocking back a glass of piss each day? I'd be an arrogant fool not to at least try it. Besides, Dowdy seems to already think that I have anyway.

I walk to the kitchen and grab a Styrofoam cup and head back to my room, so that I'll be able to immediately document my impressions on a lap top. I stand and place my penis over the cup. I sigh and throw my head back. Nothing. This is perhaps the first time I've ever experienced stage-fright with no one else around. This phenomenon is perfectly understandable when faced with crowded arena urinal troughs or a female mate who just wants to see how men "do it," but I was all alone now. Clearly, the psychological barrier is a great one, even when one steadfastly resolves to taste his inner spring.

Two hours, three Cokes, a ham sandwich, and half a watermelon later, I fill the cup -- two SOLO cups actually. I put the rim to my mouth and imbibe. I draw a mouthful and hold it inside to fully experience the essence. It tastes like an equal combination of salt and butter, the most traumatizing sea-food imaginable. Why can't it taste like liver? I have to move fast, as I'm starting to feel ill. The warmth in my mouth forces my stomach to contract. I can feel the vomit instinct begin to mobilize. My eyes bulge as I wrestle with the moment. I suddenly am plagued by a grainy, overexposed image of a naked Chuck Berry pissing on a nubile blonde in a bathtub. I can think of nothing else but the infamous video which has been a hit on the underground celebrity porn market for several years now. My body does not want to swallow, but my will overcomes my throat's authority and the piss funnels toward my stomach. I run to the bathroom.

The Chuck Berry dialogue continues in my head as I repeat the rinsing and brushing procedure I had undergone five years before. I am shell-shocked by the memory of Chuck's immense gastric clap. "Smell my fart. Do you love me? Then open your mouth. How does that piss taste? Warm and salty, huh? You drink my piss." I feel as violated as the blonde, but then it hits me: Both myself and that woman consumed urine consensually. Come to think of it, my piss lapping was far more humiliating in light of its pointlessness. I derived no sexual pleasure or intimacy from this act, only shame and reflexive nausea.

A few days later, I go to the library and waste time playing around on InfoTrak. My mind randomly dictates subjects and I read articles on each until I am bored and choose another. I read old magazine and newspaper stories about the Go-Gos, Porky's Revenge, auto-asphyxiation, and Jim Jones. Eventually, I type "Urine Therapy" in the keyword slot. Up pops an article which sings praises for urine consumption, but warns that taking your own waters isn't recommended unless you're a vegetarian or a vegan who abstains from narcotics. Meat-eaters, it says, produce urine that contains high levels of potentially harmful urea. This is reportedly what can make piss taste disgusting or trigger a gag reflex.

This should give me solace, I suppose, as there's still hope for me. If only I could find happiness in eating plants exclusively, I believe I could overcome my urophobia. However, I'm not ready to give up Porterhouse steaks or recreational drugs just yet. I also wouldn't feel comfortable kissing women after I've consumed piddle. You can't really tell them about your little habit and expect them to stand by your side. Then again, you don't want to gloss over it and have them think you have Chronic Halitosis or eat nothing but crab legs either. Perhaps someday I'll try to regularly drink my own piss. But for now, I think I'll just live as I did before. I almost wish I never would have considered the benefits of urine therapy. My life was much simpler when I believed that piss was tantamount to poison.

Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.