My childhood enemas

Author: Anon
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My childhood enemas

By Anon

Time has obscured the particulars of my childhood enemas. Memories of events blend and I never could place milestones with specific ages. All I can say for certain is that these recollections happened during the years between late elementary school and early Junior High.

First, I thought nothing of having my temperature taken rectally. Not only was it always done in this manner at home by my mother, but it also happened at every visit to the pediatrician's office. I am not sure at what age I was switched to a general practitioner, but I do recall, much to my embarrassment, exposing my bottom for that glass rod well into my teenage years. I was more fearful of the nurse using the blood pressure cuff, which I associated very strongly with serious diseases, than with pulling down my pants and uncovering my fully developed penis for the nurse to see.

Office visits began with undressing in the exam room. Older kids could leave their underpants on, but younger ones were completely undressed for the exam. The nurse came in and took the child to be weighed and measured. He or she was paraded past the exam rooms to where the scale was kept. Upon returning to the exam room the child was made to lie on the exam table for the nurse to take his or her temperature. I would get up on the high table and pull off my underpants and lie there with my legs slightly apart so she could insert the glass rod into my rectum. The nurse held the thermometer in place while waiting for the mercury to register.

During the time the nurse had me pinned to the exam table she obtained the details for the office visit. The nurse asked about fevers, coughs and other symptoms and inquired about my recent bowel habits. I reddened when the nurse asked if I'd had been given an enema recently. If I had received an enema the nurse wanted to know if my mother had gotten good results. I was terrified that my mother would relate how I had protested and cried, but she never mentioned my behavior. The doctor would also question her about my bowel movements as he carefully checked for abdominal pain during his exam. The exploration of my belly ended with a bit of tickling which took my mind off the subject. The exam ended with the nurse returning to administer a shot of penicillin.

As my mother wrote out the check for the office visit, the doctor recited the recuperation advice while busily scrawling out a prescription and a school excuse note. I listened closely to his mumbled litany. Keep the fever down. Plenty of fluids. Keep his system flushed out. I shivered when I heard that, my attention momentarily diverted from the ache in my butt from the shot. "Flushed out" meant an enema.

My mother had an established routine for dealing with illness and she never deviated from it. A fever required strict bed rest. I couldn't watch television, which was in the living room, or eat at the kitchen table. If I got out of bed to use the bathroom I had to put on a robe and wear sippers.

I was provided a special drinking glass to use. It was filled with orange juice in the day time and tap water, without ice, at night. A box of tissues was mine to use and I had a paper grocery sack next to the bed for trash. Also on the nightstand was an alarm clock, the Vaseline jar and the rectal thermometer.

My temperature was taken several times a day. Bits of aspirin were given if the fever passed the 100F mark. When it was time for temperature, mother came into the room, removed the thermometer from its case and shook it down. I knew what to do without having to be prompted. I didn't mind the procedure since it wasn't in the least uncomfortable, unlike some of the other things she did when I was ill. I pushed down the covers with my feet, rolled onto my stomach, flexed my hips to snag my pajama bottoms with my hands in order to shove them down well past my butt. I then laid flat on my stomach and reached down with both hands to hold apart my buttocks. I released them after the thermometer was inserted.

Mother never touched my anus. Vaseline was only applied to the thermometer tip or enema nozzle. Rather than be jabbed with the thin glass rod I learned to hold open my butt for the insertion. Mother could always separate my buttocks with her free hand if necessary of course. She wasn't gentle about it as I well knew from the countless times she opened my cheeks while I lay over her lap. The thermometer stayed up my butt for five minutes, during which time I was to remain absolutely still. This I always did, as I didn't want to break the glass rod. Most of the time she sat next to me watching the clock. If she left I would have to call out to her to remind her of the thermometer. I would wait as long as I could before summoning her. Exposing my bare butt with a thermometer sticking out of it was a thrill. Of course I was exposing it to no one but my mind's eye. I would have been mortified if someone walked in on me in that condition. When she withdrew the thermometer she didn't wipe the Vase- line left behind. She held a tissue around the thermometer as she pulled it out and that was the extent of it. I liked the sensations the residual Vaseline caused.

The other treatments I was subjected to weren't as enjoy- able. I fought the application of Vick's rub. I couldn't stand the odor or its sticky, clammy feeling against my chest. There wasn't any bargaining with my mother and she was short on patience. Reasoning with me wasn't her style. Raising her voice was about as far as she needed to go to obtain my grudging cooperation. Mustard plasters were anoth- er hated treatment. These were used to treat chest congestion and they burned. I was much to ill to put up much of a fight when these were used. Cough syrup tasted terrible and I wasn't allowed to drink any water after taking it. Only the strong, adult medicine was effective, but I really had to be coughing a lot during the night before it was used.

Mid-morning I got an enema. The enema bag came out at the start of the illness and remained in use until I got over the disorder. Mother had an old, folding latex douche bag and it also served as our enema bag. It was brown latex with a black rubber collar. The tubing and tips were was also black. When put away, it was stored in a paper bag on the shelf in her closet. When out for use the enema bag hung from the laundry rack that was suspended above the bath tub. The open end of the bag hung down to drain and the hose looped twice around one of the wire frame cross pieces. The cord attached to the bag was kept out of the way by a clothes pin. The nozzle, wrapped in a piece of toilet paper, resided in the medicine chest. The bag was hung by its cord from the towel rack above the bath tub when I received an enema.

I would lie in bed and listen for the sounds that meant my enema was imminent. When I heard the unmistakable noises of running water filling the bathroom sink I knew mother was preparing the enema. I didn't get to witness the preparations, everything was ready by the time I arrived in the small bathroom. I would imagine her first taking down the enema bag and attaching the nozzle. Then she ran both taps in the sink to fill the basin with warm water. Next she would froth a bar of Ivory soap in the basin until the water was milky. She used the bathroom cup to fill the enema bag and then suspended the filled bag from the towel rack.

When the enema was ready mother came into the bedroom and picked up the jar of Vaseline and told me to put on my robe and slippers and to come with her. She never explained what was about to happen, but by this age I well knew what to expect. Long ago I had ceased trying to get out of having an enema or physically resisting when it was time for an enema. I learned the hard way that there was no choice. If I didn't cooperate I was spanked. This made me ever more hysterical and worsened the entire experience. The plain fact was I had to obey my mother so I soon learned not to actively fight her orders. I still skated near the end of her patience by complaining. Enemas were horrible to endure and I pleaded throughout the enema for her to take it out and I howled and cried from the pain, but I went willingly.

When I arrived in the bathroom the enema bag was waiting. The end of the hose was in the sink, the rectal nozzle pointing up at me. On the side of the sink was a wad of toilet paper. The door was closed behind me. Mother finished her preparations by sitting on the edge of the tub and spreading a towel across her lap. I slowly removed my robe and pajama bottoms while my mother got herself ready. Next she opened the Vaseline and dipped the nozzle into it. I avoided eye contact as I stripped and didn't speak but when she was ready it was best not dawdle.

Up onto her lap I climbed and attempted to make myself comfortable before the liquid onslaught began. It seemed I never could find the precise position that would make the enema go easier or that wouldn't cause my stiff, immature penis distress. My cock would stiffen as soon I realized I would be getting an enema and would remain rigid through the enema. I thought nothing of this response, nor did I have any understanding of the relationship between the two. The reason I recall this proto-erotic reaction to enemas was the clear memory of how difficult it was to place my erect penis between my thighs and past the seat when I sat on the toilet to relieve myself. Many times I sat there expelling the first bursts of enema solution with my tiny (and later, full- sized) cock sticking straight up from between my thighs. If anything, I thought it a confirmation that I indeed needed to be given an enema. Mother never commented on these erections. Not when I was little and certainly not past puberty when the response was definitely unmistakable.

Up on her lap I needed both hands to steady myself so she used her free hand to part my cheeks for the nozzle insertion. Try as I might, I never was successful relaxing my anus before she poked the nozzle in. Invariably I yelped at the sharp intrusion. Too soon the clamp was released and the flow initiated. There was nothing to do but suffer.

The thing I hated about our enema bag was that it always looked like it held an enormous amount of liquid. The sides expanded out until the normally flat folded bag looked like a bulging water balloon. When full, hot water bottles and open top fountain syringes didn't appear to be as daunting as that douche bag. My suspicions seemed to be confirmed after I finally received an enema from my grandmother's red open top enema bag. My capacity by that time was the full bag, and I had been getting those two quart enemas for some time. The relative ease at which I took that enema from my grandmother merely confirmed my suspicions that our enema bag held more water.

I do not know precisely how much water my mother used for my enemas before I graduated to the full bag. I read over and over the section on enemas in the Mothercare book she had and I remember it had a volume-to-age chart, but I do not recall the specifics. Whatever the measurements, they were more than ample. Sometime between ages eleven and twelve the volume of my enemas increased to two full quarts.

I craned my neck to watch the sides of the bag slowly fold in on themselves as the water moved from the bag into my abdomen. Cramps were fierce and the urge to evacuate fear- some as I struggled to hold in the enema. Mother offered no advice during the procedure nor did she attempt to ease my suffering either by stopping or slowing the flow or by rubbing my belly. I am fairly sure the book didn't mention anything of the sort either. The instructions were long on solution preparation and positions and short on patient comfort. The book didn't mention subsequent plain water rinse enemas either and, unlike some of my friends, I never got more than one enema at a time.

When the sides of the enema bag finally touched she snapped closed the clamp and pulled out the tip, which had been kept firmly pressed against my anus. The end of the hose went into the sink and the wad of toilet paper went against my wet anus. Mother held my buttocks together while I struggled to both hold in the enema solution and make myself comfort- able on her lap. Fortunately she didn't have a set time I had to retain the enema. She judged retention by my squirm- ing and protests of having to go. When she let me up I clutched my cramping belly and hobbled carefully over to the toilet.

Mother was stayed in the bathroom to clean the enema equipment. She wiped off the nozzle before unscrewing it from the end of the tube. She then washed it under hot water and placed it back in the medicine chest. The bag was taken down from the towel rack and rinsed out with hot water. Finally it was looped over the clothes rack to drip dry. I tried mightily to hold in the enema solution while she was present but the pain from the irritating soap solution and the cramps from the pressure of a full colon quickly overcame my inhibitions. With a loud, heartfelt moan I released my sphincters with my mother still in the bathroom. More cramps followed and I surrendered to the agony of voiding. After she left I would stare up at the instrument of my pain and discomfort. The gently dripping and swaying bag and hose excited me in spite of the suffering.

I would call her when I was finished expelling the soapy solution. She would come in to the bathroom to give me a quick sponge bath before putting me back in bed. Regular baths weren't permitted during convalesce, least I catch a chill and worsen my condition.

When she put me back in bed I would say something on the order of, "I feel much better now that I'm cleaned out." or "I am feeling better after that." I truly felt better after receiving an enema and I wanted my mother to know it. I doubt if it made a difference to her, but I wanted to do everything I could to ensure that they would continue. All those other rotten treatments didn't have much, if any, relieving effect. Only the enema, awful as it was to endure, made a noticeable difference on how I felt.

When I wasn't sick or coming down with something, the prospect of receiving an enema was chancy. I wasn't given an enema regularly, like on a weekly basis or anything. Mother monitored my bowel habits closely and the bottle of Castoria was quickly used. I hated the stuff but one didn't ask for a specific treatment, one told symptoms and accepted the decided remedy. Staining underpants was a sin. It meant something wasn't right. Either I was lazy about hygiene or I had a problem. If the bag was already out, hanging above the bath tub, the decision was an enema. Only when I was obviously constipated, on my third day without a bowel movement, would it warrant a special effort to get out the bag.

The douche bag would appear from time to time over the tub and would remain there for several days. A child's memory isn't very cognizant of time passage. I do not know if these appearances where chance or based on some established frequency, such as her period. I only saw it in use once when my mother was ill. I happened to get up late one night to pee and discovered the bag and hose coiled around the sink basin about to be filled. My father was in the bathroom and told me to hurry up, but my cock stiffened immediately at the sight and I had a difficult time peeing. He was obvious- ly getting ready to give my mother an enema.

As an older child, well before I was sexually aware, I would take these appearances as opportunities for self-administered enemas. I didn't always get the chance, but if the equipment was out and I was alone, I gave myself an enema to satisfy some need I didn't comprehend. I followed the procedures that I had read except that I assumed a kneeling position in the bath tub to take the enema. I made the solution just as soapy as it was when mother did it. I guess I figured that was how it was done. These enemas were just as painful as the real ones, but I couldn't stop myself from doing it. I trembled and shivered as I prepared the enema and gulped air manfully as cramps tore through my belly as I took the enema. I forced myself to finish the enema no matter how much I suffered. It took a while for me to figure out I was hanging the bag too high for the position I assumed. When I lowered the bag to a more reasonable height the enemas became relatively easy to take.

Other circumstances led to my first ejaculation and orgasm, but after learning how to ejaculate, I masturbated while taking an enema. These orgasms were incredibly intense. I often wondered what my reaction would have been had I climaxed during an enema without first knowing about orgasms.