When I went to university, I rented a room from Mme Argand, a widow. My parents had found this preferable to staying at these dorms. I think they wanted the older lady to keep an eye on me (keep in mind that in those days majority was at 21, not 18.

One day, I was spending a lot of time on the toilet. Mme Argand eventually knocked, asking if I was ok. I said yes. She said that she would like to use the toilet, if it was possible. Since nothing seem to budge for me, I agreed.

Later Mme Argand asked me if I was constipated. I blushed, and nodded. “If you need help going, you can use my equipment to give yourself an enema.”

An enema? I knew the word lavement, of course, but had never had one. I thanked her but said I would not even know how to use the equipment.

“Oh right. Well, I can give it to you, you'll see it's not a big deal.”

Even though I did not know how exactly enemas were given, except for images of clyster syringes of yore, I knew which body opening they involved, and was shocked by the prospect of showing it to another person. It would be already very embarrassing with a doctor or a nurse, but she was neither, and I would see her every day durign my studies!

“Oh no I don't think I will be needing that. I'll be alright, it will get sorted out.

— Mmh. If it does not pass you will be very uncomfortable with bowel obstruction, and then you may have to go to the hospital to get it fixed. Better fix it now.”

Bowel obstruction ! I had indeed heard people mention _occlusion intestinale_ as one possible outcome of constipation.

“Besides, straining to go to the toilet is bad. It may damage your rectum and anus, and create hemorrhoids.”

Oh dear. Maybe I should accept the treatment, I thought. If I ended up with problems down there and I needed to show them to a mail doctor, I thought, it would be definitely worse.

“I guess I'll take the enema.

— Good. Let's go to the bathroom, shall we?”

Mme Argand's house had a bathroom with a tub, a bidet and a wash basin, separate from the WC, or room with the toilet and a tiny wash basin. From a cabinet she extracted a white enameled can with some rubber pipe, which ended with a black bakelite nozzle (I did not know it was called a nozzle; and to think of it, it could be bakelite or some other kind of plastic).

“We can do it either with soap in the water or without. If we can clear the problem without soap, better do so…”

She turned the bathtub taps until she felt water on her hand at a suitable temperature, then filled the can. She then opened the little tap at the bottom of the can and had water run through the pipe into the tub. She then hung the can from a hook (was it installed for this specific purpose?).

“You know, we can't do this if you keep your skirt and panties.”

I felt foolish. I undid my belt, removed my skirt, and then my panties.

“Kneel on the rug, head down, bottom up and turned towards me.”

The position was definitely embarrassing! Mme Argand knelt behind me. I heard a little pop. I turned my head and saw her smearing some grease from a little jar onto the nozzle. Then I felt the nozzle on my anus.

“Bear down. Like for going potty.”

I obeyed, and felt the greased nozzle entering. Then, she opened the tap and I felt warm water entering. Except for the fact that I was showing my anus and my… my lady parts to my landlady, it was not bad. Not bad at first… I started getting cramps.

“It hurts.

— I'm stopping the water for a moment.”

And so she did. After that, she reached under my tummy and started massaging me. Even though my bowels cramped, that felt nice. My bowels calmed down a bit, though the situation was uncomfortable. She opened the tap again. My bowels accepted some more water, and then I started to cramp again. This time, she said

“You took one liter. I suggest that you go to the toilet now. When you're done, I'll give you another enema.”

Another enema! But there was no time for protesting — I got up as fast as I could and I left for the toilet. I at last could expel the waste that was blocking me up! I wiped myself with some satisfaction, then washed my hands.

Mme Argand was all smiling when I came back. She had prepared the can again! I tried to desist myself.

“Madame, I don't think I need a second one. The… the stoppage went out.

— I think it would be better if you took the two liters, to make sure the way is clear. I think they will go more easily.”

As the first enema had been quite a success, I did not wish to quarrel with Mme Argand and prosternated myself again for the second dose. Indeed, it was easier than the first one. This time, she massaged my stomach throughout the injection. I started to cramp only as three quarters of the can were in my bowels. I eventually took the whole can.

Mme Argand had been right; there was more waste. I expelled the enema, wiped myself, and got up. I felt another urge to go. Finally, when I was confident I had expelled everything, I went back to the bathroom to get dressed again.

“How do you feel?

— Relieved.

— See? Next time you feel blocked up, just ask me. I'll let you use the bidet now.”

She left. As I washed myself, I could not help thinking about those extraordinary events. Not only had I been cleared of my obstruction, it had felt extraordinarily naughty. My fingers went to a place that I knew well-behaved girls should not touch except for washing. I rubbed myself to pleasure. Does that sound crazy?

I had a few other opportunities to enlist Mme Argand's help during my studies. I never faked constipation, though I may have exaggerated its severity. At the third episode, she proposed showing me how to do it myself. She demonstrated how to fill the can with water at body temperature, how to flush the air from the pipe, and so on, and also how to lay on my back knees up in the bathtub, the can on the tub rim, and insert the pipe. I however claimed that it was better when she did it. Did she buy my innocent explanation?

I know you're going to be disappointed. No, Mme Argand and myself never went beyond enemas and the associated massage. There were a few times when she passed a thermometer to me so that I could check my temperature; she asked me if I knew how to use it in my backside, and I nodded (this was how it happened at home). I could have played incompetent and asked her to do it, but I did not dare. Also, even though she saw my privates quite closely during the enemas, there was never any mention of them. I renounced getting an enema because I was going through my period.

It is only later, much later, after an unsuccessful marriage that eventually ended in a divorce, that I dared look for female companionship. But that's another story.