It should have been the happiest Monday of my life. It was late spring 1990, I had just turned 18 and graduated from high school, and the forecast for the Bay Area was warm and sunny. Best of all, my mother was set to leave later that morning for a 5-day business conference on the East Coast, and my twin sister Liz was staying with a friend until Tuesday. The result was that I would have the house all to myself overnight. I was finally starting to feel my oats as an adult and planned to invite my gang of buddies over for a night of poker and movies.

I suspected things were going awry when I started getting the chills shortly before heading to bed Sunday evening. By Monday morning, after a restless night of alternating shivers and sweating, my throat felt like it was on fire, my head was pounding, and my whole body ached. Not wanting to worry Mom, since I knew how important this trip was for her career, I forced myself out of bed and went to the bathroom for a warm shower. After a short rest seated on the bathtub edge to try to clear my head, I finished towelling off. I then put on my bathrobe and headed downstairs, leaving my sweat-stained pyjamas and underwear in the laundry basket.

Mom was bustling about the kitchen, dressed in blue jeans and a cream-coloured blouse, which made her look younger than her 49 years. Her luggage was already packed and sitting by the front door, even though she wouldn’t be leaving for another few hours.

To say Mom was organized would be an understatement. She had stocked up on enough food to feed a whole army, much less just Liz and me, during her absence. There were detailed instructions for various appointments set up for the week and for all the chores that had to be done. She had also put together a list of people for us to contact in case we needed anything.

That list of course included Doctor Preeti Walker at Village Pediatrics, a small but bustling children’s medical office that had so far managed to stay independent of the HMOs. Liz had already started seeing a “women’s health” doctor when we were 16. But for some reason, Mom had never proposed switching me to an adult practice. To be honest, I felt slightly intimidated by the idea of changing doctors so never pushed the issue. And I didn’t really mind still going to Village Pediatrics, since I knew what to expect, even though it was embarrassing to be the oldest patient in the waiting room and to have Mom accompany me during exams. By coincidence, although Liz was no longer a regular patient, they had kindly agreed to give her a tetanus booster that she needed before starting her summer pre-college program the following week; that appointment was scheduled for the upcoming Wednesday morning while Mom would be away.

“Good morning, Honey!”, Mom said, looking up briefly from what she was doing as I entered the kitchen. My attempt to smile and look cheerful was obviously unconvincing, since she immediately got that “mom” look on her face and walked toward me. “Oh, Luke, you don’t look well. What’s wrong, Honey?” One hand on my forehead confirmed her suspicion. “You’re burning up,” she observed matter-of-factly, albeit with a slight tone of concern.

“I’ll be fine, Mom. It’s just a cold,” I said as reassuringly as I could. “You need to finish getting ready. I’ll just have a glass of orange juice and rest for a while.” I headed unsteadily to the refrigerator to pour a glass.

“Don’t be silly, Luke. I don’t need to leave for another two hours. I’d better phone the doctor’s office right away. If they can see you today, I’ll have plenty of time to arrange everything before heading out.”

Relieved that Mom wasn’t contemplating cancelling her trip and proud that she considered that she didn’t need to accompany me to the doctor, I told her about my throat and overall body aches. I then headed upstairs with my orange juice and plopped down heavily on my bed. By that time, she was already on the phone, and I could catch snippets of the conversation: “…. Sore throat…. Warm to the touch…. No, I haven’t taken it yet…. Yes, of course… Oh, that would be great... OK... Yes, I’ll phone back in a few minutes.” There were a few more inaudible words before I heard the phone click.

Mom came upstairs and walked toward my bedroom. Sticking her head through the door, she announced that Doctor Walker was out for the week, but the new nurse practitioner, Jill Smith, could see me in the afternoon. “She suspects you may have strep and asked me to take your temperature so she can decide how urgent it is. I’ll be right back.” Mom stared meaningfully at the half-empty glass of juice for several seconds, as if having some kind of internal debate, then finally headed out toward the master suite.

Mom proceeded into the master suite. As I heard her rummage in the bathroom medicine cabinet, anticipation crept into my feverish brain. My heart began to race as I recalled past sick days...

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As a matter of course, Mom had taken my sister’s and my temperatures rectally all throughout our childhood. When I caught the flu once at age 11, she informed me that Liz had switched to oral readings and asked if I wanted to do the same. Normally, I would have welcomed a chance to be treated like an adult, especially since it seemed that my twin sister already was. By that time, however, I had begun to get a strange pleasure from the temperature-taking occasions. I didn’t really understand the nature of my enjoyment, but those moments of intimacy with Mom had somehow become something to look forward to. And, after having had my temperature taken once the “grown-up” way at summer camp, I definitely didn’t like the idea of the sharp end of an oral thermometer poking painfully under my tongue. So, I responded to her as nonchalantly as I could, saying I didn’t mind continuing with the same way we had always done it. I even added casually that I had read somewhere it was more accurate than taking it orally. Mom smiled ever so slightly at that argument and said I was right. She agreed to continue using the rectal thermometer and never again asked if I wanted to change.

Since then, I became vaguely aware that having my temperature taken rectally was unusual for a teenager, though the embarrassment of appearing childish was never strong enough to push me to ask to change. Every time when I was sick and Mom would announce it was temperature time, I would catch my sister smirking as I headed off to my bedroom for the procedure. I suspect she talked about it with her friends and probably even peeked through the door to watch. One time when we were 16, under the pretext of looking for a misplaced homework paper before school, Liz “accidentally” barged into my room while my temperature was registering. To my shock (albeit one that somehow gave me a strange tingling sensation), Mom didn’t chase her out right away but rather let her rummage through the clutter on my desk. She thus had plenty of time to observe the glass thermometer protruding from my bare bottom. I was blushing profusely by the time she finally found the conveniently hidden paper and left the room with a smug look on her face…

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As my brain emerged from this reverie, in occurred to me that it had been several years since my last illness, so I wasn’t sure what Mom was planning to to. Most likely, she would come back with the oral thermometer, marking another step in my march to adulthood. I steeled myself somewhat apprehensively for the inevitable transition.

But when she returned, and I saw what she was carrying, I had to let suppress a gasp. In one hand, she held the familiar stubby-tipped thermometer. I knew from my secret forays into her bathroom that it had the word “rectal” etched into the back. In her other hand was a jar of Vaseline. She had a strange, almost apologetic look on her face, though it was hard to tell what she was really thinking.

“Honey, I’m really sorry. Normally, I would want to try to get an oral reading, at your age. But I promised Jill that I would call her back right away, and unfortunately, you just drank cold orange juice. We can’t wait 45 minutes for your mouth to warm up, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to take it in your rectum.”

With those words, I knew my fate was sealed, even though I didn’t yet realize all the ramifications of her decision. I started to blush profusely. Being a teenager (even an “adult” one), I made a face pretending to be unhappy. But inside, I was rather excited at the idea of once again being subjected to such an intimate procedure by my mother. I was also strangely relieved that I wouldn’t have to manage the uncomfortable oral thermometer under my tongue.

After shaking down the thermometer with vigorous snapping motions of her arm, Mom held it up to verify the level of mercury. She opened the jar of Vaseline and sank the glass into it. When she pulled it out, I saw that it had a thick glob of pale-yellow jelly covering about one inch of the tip.

“OK, Honey, take off your robe and turn over onto your tummy for me,” she instructed.

At that point, I remembered with alarm that I was wearing nothing under my bathrobe. Not wanting to expose myself too much, I removed the garment with my back turned to Mom and quickly lay face down naked on the bed. I may have imagined it, but I thought I detected a little smile as she watched me get into position.

Mom sat down on the bed beside me and used the thumb and forefinger of her right hand to spread my buttocks, exposing my anus to the cool air of the bedroom. I shuddered slightly, which she probably assumed was due to the fever.

The sensations of what happened next were both pleasant and troubling. First, using her left hand, Mom placed the Vaseline-coated tip of the thermometer against my anus. Then, after a short pause, she pushed the cool glass quickly inside. I felt it slide in further until it came to rest with the stubby tip deep in my rectum. Mom cupped my bottom and held the thermometer between her fingers. Slowly, I felt the Vaseline melt away as the thermometer warmed to my body temperature. From time to time, Mom would move her hand, and the thermometer would press up against the wall of my rectum. There was something strangely comfortable about lying there exposed and being taken care of in such an intimate way by my mother, despite the vague sense of shame at being treated like a child.

While this was happening, I became acutely aware of another, rather embarrassing development. My penis was pressing against the bedsheet under my body. Whether from the intimacy of the moment, the loss of control or the physical sensation of the thermometer, it had become noticeably hard. Try as I might to think of something else, I couldn’t get my mind off the instrument that was so thoroughly penetrating my privacy and held in place by my mother. I blushed and turned my head away from Mom to avoid giving away all the complex feelings and emotions that were coursing through my body and brain. She probably sensed that something strange was going on in my mind but thankfully didn’t say anything.

After what I guess was five minutes, Mom finally pulled the thermometer out, wiped it and held it up to read it. “Hmmm. You’re definitely running a temperature. Go ahead and get under the covers while I call the nurse with the result.” Thankfully, she left the room before I was forced to expose my still hard penis, and I quickly scrambled under the sheets to security.

What happened next wasn’t totally clear to my foggy brain. I first overheard Mom talking to the doctor’s office, presumably with the nurse practitioner. I couldn’t hear everything but did catch the number “102.3” followed by some murmuring and a quick little laugh then more murmuring. “OK, great, 2:00 then. I need to catch a plane, but I’ll arrange for someone to bring him in.”

After that, she made a few more calls, but I was dozing off so didn’t really pay attention. I did, however, hear the end of at least one conversation: “Oh that’s great, Katie. Thank you so much. I’ll let him know.”

Katie? Katie Richards? From next door? My mind was reeling. Katie was two years older than me, and we had known each other since I had been a tot. She had even babysat Liz and me a few times. I have to admit, I had had a crush on her since early adolescence, even though she was obviously out of my league. I knew from her younger brother Ben that she had just come home from college for the summer. But why was Mom talking to her?

My question was answered a few minutes later when Mom came in to kiss me goodbye. “Honey, I got you a 2:00 appointment at Village Peds. You’re obviously in no shape to drive. I was going to ask Mrs. Richards to take you, but she’s up at their lake house. Fortunately, Katie answered the phone and kindly volunteered to do it. That girl is such a sweetheart! She’ll pick you up at 1:30. I’ve already notified Village Peds and will call when I get to my hotel in New York to see how it went.”

With that, Mom was off, and I was in for an experience that has remained etched in my brain.