Date: Tue, 15 Apr 2008 23:09:11 -0500
From: Southwest Guy <swguy66@hotmail.com>
Subject: "Enema Time"

This story is completely true and accurately describes the author's
personal experience. It is for informational and recreational purposes
only, and the author does not advocate any of the activities described. It
should not be read by anyone under the age of eighteen.


ENEMA TIME

Some of my earliest erotic memories come from the late 1940s, when I was
about six or seven years old and my parents occasionally gave me an
enema. I can't remember how many there were, but I'm sure I got at least
one, and possibly as many as three. Since they weren't a regular thing, I
assume my parents gave them to me only when I was constipated or complained
of a stomach ache.

To me, enemas were so unpleasant that I was terrified by the idea of having
to get one, yet at the same time, they fascinated and excited me in an
erotic way (not that I knew what the word "erotic" meant back then). I
invariably got my enemas in the back bedroom of our house, which I shared
with my younger brother and our two sisters. My brother and I (after he
became old enough) slept in bunk beds at night, with me on the top level,
while our two sisters shared a double bed.

I remember being completely naked for each enema and being placed on my
back, crosswise in the middle of the double bed, on a small rubberized
sheet (maybe four feet square) that felt cool and slightly clammy. Being
naked was the worst part of it, because it made me feel not only helpless,
but totally vulnerable. I knew that I couldn't stop whatever was going to
happen to me, and I sensed intuitively before the first enema that it was
going to be something uncomfortable and extremely embarrassing (after all,
I was naked!). I may have cried or whimpered each time, although I'm not
certain, and I definitely felt very frightened by the situation.

I was positioned with my legs spread wide apart and my knees pulled up
slightly, and I remember being fully aware of the small black plastic
syringe at the end of the rubber enema hose, especially as it was being
smeared with a thin coating of Vaseline. The hose dangled ominously from
the dreaded red enema bag, held high overhead and bulging with water, a
rather disconcerting sight to a naked and helpless little six-year-old!
Although I don't remember being held down in any way, I had no desire to
cooperate and surely made enough of a fuss to warrant some type of
restraint (I want to believe that my arms were held down over my head, but
I have no memory of that at all).

I do recall the hard, prickly jab of the plastic syringe when the moment of
truth finally arrived, then the smooth feel of it sliding in, then the
sheer terror that swept through me as the clamp on the rubber hose sprang
open, and I felt the water starting to flow. Surprisingly, I don't remember
if my little penis became either erect or semi-erect while this was
happening, although I suspect it remained flaccid, because the situation
was so traumatic. I do recall feeling a sharp, painful and steadily-growing
pressure suddenly fill my belly, then frantically squirming around in a
desperate attempt to control my bowels. The only other thing I remember is
the presence of a large porcelain basin, partially filled with water.

Since the enemas were so unpleasant, I'm surprised today that they
stimulated me erotically, yet they did. In fact, since I knew that the
enema bag and syringes were stored in the hall closet, I sometimes would
sneak them into the bathroom to look at them and fantasize about them. The
different syringes fascinated me. The first was very small, only about an
inch and three quarters long, and since that was the one my parents used on
me, I assumed it was intended for children. The second was longer, at about
two and a half inches, and I assumed, of course, that it must be for adult
women. The last one truly amazed me, because it was huge, about six inches
long at least, and I decided that it must be for grown-up men (of course,
it was really the douche syringe, but what the heck did I know?).

Since the big hairy bodies of grown-up men totally captivated my young
imagination, it seemed only natural to me that grown men would have to use
an exceptionally long and interestingly-shaped enema syringe, and I enjoyed
thinking about them putting such a thing into themselves. The big syringe
we had was just over half an inch in diameter (enormously wide to me!) and
curved slightly, ending in a large, bulbous head with a screw-in tip where
the water flowed out. Of course, my fascination with the big syringe
eventually prompted me to try inserting it into my own rectum, to see what
it felt like. Lubricating it with lots of Vaseline, I gently eased it in,
only to discover that, alas, it probably would fit more comfortably into an
adult. Eventually, the idea of using such a syringe to give a grown man an
enema became a recurring childhood fantasy.

My dad, of course, was a grown man (he was in his late thirties at the
time), and I didn't fail to notice the erotic implications of that fact. He
was always very open about such things as nudity and enemas, and although
he didn't make a habit of walking around the house naked, he often left the
door to the bathroom open when he was drying off after taking a shower,
allowing me and other members of our family to see him without any
clothes. I felt very attracted to his body and saw him as a beautiful, even
perfect, example of what a grown-up man should look like. Needless to say,
I frequently went out of my way to pass the bathroom door when he was
drying himself!

Thinking about it now, my dad was a good-looking guy in his younger
days. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, weighed about 155-160 pounds
and had an average build, which I later realized was similar to my own
build as an adult. His head was slowly balding, and he had a moderate
amount of hair on his chest, soft-looking and rather light brownish-black
(eventually graying), along with a moderate amount of the same type of hair
covering his stomach and growing down his belly to his pubic hair. Seeing
the hair around his penis and scrotum really turned me on (so to speak,
since I was only a boy), just as the thought of pubic hair turned me on in
the case of any grown man. The thick tangle of soft crinkly-looking hairs
demonstrated his maturity and made the area between his legs seem
mysterious, exciting and "steamy" in a very erotic way.

The most interesting thing about my dad, however, was the fact that, unlike
me, he hadn't been circumcised. I knew what circumcision was, so I
understood the difference between us, and since my dad had told me that
circumcision was very rare when he was a boy, I came to think of his penis
as looking old-fashioned when compared with my own smaller penis and its
more modern look. Still, I liked my dad's foreskin, even though it usually
covered up most of his glans (which I wanted to see!) and sometimes hung in
a fleshy pucker at the tip. Judging from what I know today, my dad's penis
was about average in size. (My dad once had to have an operation on his
lower back, and I remember him telling my mother afterwards that a male
hospital orderly had inserted a catheter into his penis, so he could pee
while lying in his bed. The orderly apologized for having to do such a
painful procedure, but my dad said it gave him so much relief that he
didn't even notice any pain. I found that story very intriguing.)

I also liked it when my dad turned around as he was drying off, and I was
able to catch a glimpse of his backside. He had beautiful buttocks, full,
fleshy and (in my opinion) perfectly-shaped, and I couldn't get enough of
seeing them. For some reason, I found that part of my dad, or of any grown
man, extremely attractive and appealing, and his smooth cheeks and the
slightly-hairy furrow between them came to symbolize for me both his erotic
beauty and the masculine strength of his body.

Getting back to enemas, I often heard my dad tell our mother that he was
going to take one because he felt constipated, and although he always
closed the door when he went into the bathroom after making his
announcement, he never made any effort to hide what he was doing. I always
felt an erotic tingle in my tummy whenever he disappeared with the enema
equipment that way, and I definitely wanted to go with him into the
bathroom.

As time went by, I became ever more interested in what my dad was doing,
especially since I pictured him (incorrectly, of course) using the big
curved enema syringe with the bulbous head, and I came to wish very
strongly that he would invite me to help him take one of his enemas. Once,
when our family was returning in our car from an outing in the nearby
mountains, my dad told our mother that he was going to take an enema when
he got home. I don't know how I summoned up the courage, but I actually
asked him if I could "stick it in" for him (I'm pretty sure those were the
words I used!). I had the distinct impression at the time that he replied
"yes," and I was ecstatic knowing that I finally would be able to take part
in this highly-erotic ritual with him. However, when we got home, he
disappeared into the bathroom alone, and I never heard anything more about
it. Needless to say, I was crushed, and to this day, I wonder if I didn't
just imagine that he had given me permission to help him.

During the late 1950s, when I was in high school, I went through a brief
period when I harbored an enema-related fantasy about my dad. It started in
the summer of my fifteenth year, when my dad took me and my younger brother
with him on a business trip to Yuma, Arizona (if you've never been to Yuma
in the summertime and don't like temperatures of 123 degrees in the shade,
don't go!). We stayed in an air-conditioned motel for one night, and after
we returned home, I sometimes would imagine staying in that motel room with
just my dad. During our imaginary stay, we would challenge one another to a
good-natured, manly wrestling match. The rules were simple. Whichever one
of us could wrestle the other one into submission and strip him naked was
the winner, and he then got to lubricate the long black plastic syringe and
stick it into the loser's rectum. Although I never masturbated or
ejaculated to this fantasy, I thought about it from time to time as a
teenager and enjoyed considering the various possible outcomes of that
wrestling match with my dad.

The idea of giving enemas to grown men other than my dad also appealed to
me as a boy, beginning once again when I was about six or seven. One of the
barbers who often gave me a haircut interested me, because there was a sink
behind his barber chair where he could wash a customer's hair before giving
him a haircut. I couldn't help noticing the faucet's long rubber hose with
a shower attachment at the end, because it looked exactly like an enema
hose. All it needed was a black plastic syringe instead of the shower
attachment, and I often wondered what it would be like to give the barber
an enema with that hose. Quite oddly, I also imagined the barber being
naked in a small boat with the faucet end of the rubber hose inserted into
his bottom. The other end of the hose, with the shower attachment, would be
placed over the stern of the boat into the water, to serve as a kind of
motor to propel the boat along.

Eventually, our family moved to San Diego, which was a busy navy port, and
I quickly fell in love with all of the grown-up uniformed sailors and
marines I saw walking along the downtown streets. The thought of getting to
stick the long black plastic syringe into one of them really appealed to
me. Marines were my favorites, especially after one of my older cousins
joined the marines and came to visit us several times after graduating from
boot camp (I was in junior high by that time and had a tremendous crush on
him). However, I had to admit that the sailors' tight white bell bottom
trousers certainly showed off their butts in a provocative way! I vowed to
myself that if I ever discovered a sailor or marine tied up in an alley or
in the bushes somewhere, he was going to become intimately acquainted with
my favorite piece of black plastic! (My attraction to sailors and marines
actually began long before we moved to San Diego. In elementary school, I
couldn't imagine anything more erotic than the marines I saw in TV
documentaries, courageously storming beaches in the South Pacific during
World War II. In my eyes, they epitomized masculinity, and they quickly
became my heroes.)

As a teenager in San Diego, I also nurtured an enema fantasy in which I was
kidnapped while walking in the woods, either as a boy or an adolescent, by
a big burly lumberjack. He always wore rugged work clothes with his sleeves
rolled up, and he usually had blond curly hair. After grabbing me and
dragging me down to the shore of a nearby lake, he would tie me up, put me
in the bottom of his waiting canoe and conceal me under a blanket or
several large animal furs. Then he would paddle us across the lake to a
small island, where he had a rustic one-room cabin hidden in the trees. In
the cabin, I finally realized his motive, because there in the center of
the room stood a small wooden table covered with the rubberized sheet that
I knew from my childhood enemas. Hanging above the table was the familiar
red enema bag, bulging with water, and the dangling rubber hose with the
long black plastic syringe. In the culmination of the fantasy, of course, I
lay uncomfortably on my back on the hard table, completely naked, with my
arms tied at the wrists above my head, my bottom positioned at the table's
edge, my legs spread wide apart and pulled up at the knees, and my ankles
tied securely to stout wooden posts. Struggling helplessly, I watch as the
lumberjack stands between my legs, lubricating the enema syringe with
Vaseline and eyeing me hungrily.

Given my early fascination with enemas, it's surprising that I can't
remember my parents giving one to my younger brother, although I'm sure he
got them at various times along the way. I do remember one night, however,
when he had his temperature taken rectally. He was in elementary school at
the time, while I was in high school (he was about five and a half years my
junior), and we both happened to be in our living room, watching TV. Since
he had been sick, he was lying on his side on the couch, covered by a
blanket and with his head resting on a pillow, while I was sitting in one
of the chairs nearby. One of our parents brought in the thermometer and,
after shaking it down, pulled up the back of my brother's blanket, had him
roll slightly forward, slipped his pajama bottoms down and inserted the
thermometer into his bottom, leaving it there for several minutes to
register his temperature. I remember watching the proceedings with great
interest and being aroused by the thought that my little brother was lying
nearby with the glass thermometer sticking out of his anus. He seemed
unconcerned about what was happening, and I was a little surprised that he
didn't make a fuss!

I have lots of other erotic memories from my childhood, but these are the
only ones I can recall offhand that are associated with enemas. It may seem
that my early fascination with enemas might have led to a lifelong practice
of giving them to myself, but that isn't the case. As an adult, I've done
it a couple of times just for the heck of it and to remind myself of what
it feels like (uncomfortable!), but other than that, no. Still, I like to
fantasize about having a partner giving me an enema in the same manner as
when I was a little boy. I guess I just find the feelings of exposure,
helplessness and vulnerability that I experienced back then to be
erotically appealing for some reason. Strange, huh?


March, 2008