The difference between insanity and eccentricity was money, and I worried about it, even if unsure whom I was trying to please or appear normal for. Money did solve some problems, but it created the much harder-to-solve ur-problem of purchased insincerity. Did anyone like me for me, or would things be much different had I not taken a buyout at just the right time?

My wealth, and wealth planning, was substantial enough to keep me unlikely to ever know the answer to this question, even if the question was key to trusting, or not trusting, anyone I met after my fortunes changed.

Not only could money not buy true love, it couldn’t buy health. I assumed it was bad genes but had to acknowledge it had been one long run from being a sickly kid to a delicate co-ed to a woman who often dealt with one thing or another. And all of this was not just uncomfortable, it was terribly boring. There were so many other things I’d rather think about, so much more I’d rather be, or do.

What was happening now was a lot of low-level abdominal pain. This was better than the more dramatic IBS episodes of prior years, but it was grating and remarkably omnipresent, at least at night when I tried to sleep. It even had begun to infiltrate dreams, becoming a theme within them.

I remembered my father’s words, that money was best used as a tool, and started having weekly colonics, before the first slot of the day, the clinic open just for me so as not to attract attention.

This helped, some, but still it seemed half of every night was spent in some form of belly pain. In my twenties I’d learned enemas worked for that sort of pain, but after many partially sleepless nights, the last thing I felt capable of was getting up, mixing one, and taking it. I’d lie in bed, rubbing the small of my back, trying different breathing exercises, reading many light, distracting books on my phone in the dark, the pain an unshiftable, dogged companion.

It was on one such night, after returning home from a week in a boutique hotel, that the idea arrived. The hotel had a working fireplace in the room and offered the services of a fireplace butler and a pillow butler.

As I awoke, yet again, feeling the insatiable lower abdominal ache, I realized what was needed: An enema butler. Someone to stay on premises in the compound, a text away, who would bring whatever enema my painful bowel seemed to suggest was best, someone who could discreetly administer while I stayed in bed and then spirit away for me to expel in peace.

But, and this gave extreme pause: How did one locate such a person? How did one maintain any semblance of discretion throughout the interview process? And what about during employment? The media had forgotten about me enough since the buyout, but not so much that this sort of news couldn’t throw me memorably and salaciously into the spotlight.

My assistant Chella knew about and coordinated the colonics, so asking her to discreetly locate candidates, who could then be vetted through my colonic therapist, seemed reasonable next steps. Then came the rounds of interviews. The first round involved only conversations, and there were three candidates, a woman and two men, I clicked with enough to consider sending to a trial round.

Scheduling had it that Mervyn, a soft spoken man of about my age with an RN, moved into the smallest guest cottage for Wednesday night.

When the pain woke me, I sighed and reached for my phone. 2:18 AM, not a time I was used to texting anyone I’d met just once. But my lower abdomen and back continued to smart.

It’s Sandrine. Sorry for the hour; the cramping is back.

Immediately three dots appeared.

Poor thing. Hang in there and I’ll be up ASAP.

Mervyn quietly unlocked the French doors on the garden side and announced himself.

“Okay if I come in?”

“Yes, please.”

“Tell me about the pain,” he said, briefly passing a hand over my forehead. “You don’t seem feverish.”

“The usual. It woke me. It’s here and gnaws through to my back.”

“Where is it on the scale?”

“4? 5?” It wasn’t the worst or the best.

“Lie back and legs flat, please. Let’s have a quick feel of your belly.” I heard him snap on gloves.

His touch was gentle and he watched my face. “You’re tender there, and there?” I nodded.

He slipped a broad hand under me and massaged my sacrum, which damped the pain for a few moments. “Okay, try to take some deep, gentle breaths. I’ll bring you warm compresses and then mix your enema.

“Hips up? This will protect your linens.” Mervyn pulled a soft waterproof pad under me. The side against my skin felt fleecy. Soon he tucked a warm oil pack under my sacrum and placed another across my lower abdomen.

“How’s that?” I inhaled deeply, smelling a whiff of lavender and feeling the pain notch down as warmth spread across my belly and back. “It feels great,” I said.

“Good,” said Mervyn, nodding, seeming grateful to help. “We’ll have you feeling even better soon. You stay put and relax, and I’ll bring you a nice warm enema.”

As I heard running water and mixing sounds, I reflected on just how odd this all was, but how un-odd Mervyn made it feel. Soon he was back with my 2-liter can and Higginson syringe, which he set on the marble-topped side table. “Underwear off, please.”

I complied, feeling slightly wet between the legs, which embarrassed me. “Roll to your left so we can lubricate you?”

I felt him lift my right cheek. “I’m going to slip my finger in you. Please let me know if there’s pain or you need me to stop. I’ve warmed the lubricant so it shouldn’t be cold. Nice deep breath?”

As I inhaled, I felt his gloved fingertip pass through my anus and his finger enter my anal canal. The sensation of this relative stranger’s finger up my bottom was actually rather nice.

“Doing okay?”

I nodded. I could feel his finger spreading lube inside me, and my labia throbbed inadvertently. Mervyn had to notice my arousal but didn’t comment; all too soon his finger withdrew.

“Let’s get this nozzle inside you so we can get you to feeling better?”

I agreed and felt one of my larger nozzles, a smooth Delrin one, enter me deeply, and the first pumps of the Higginson flow warmly in. Mervyn seemed to instill the first third of the water quite quickly but paused to massage it up my descending colon. His touch was deep and confident.

“Roll to your back, please?” He pumped in another third and I felt my belly distend, but Mervyn swept his fingers across my transverse colon in a way that began to diminish the belly pain.

“Roll right?” I felt more pumps and then Mervyn’s fingers reaching over me, carrying water deep into my cecum and then switching to the small of my back.

“How’s the pain now, Sandrine?”

“Basically gone,” I said, surprised. It’d been maybe 15 minutes since I texted Mervyn.

“I’m so glad to hear that. Let’s keep you on your right for a few minutes so we can be sure to release your cecum. Please let me know if you cramp; I’ll rub you so you can continue to retain like you need for this to work.”

Some ten or fifteen minutes passed with me on my side, Mervyn massaging gentle circles on my belly and back. Then something shifted and an intense cramp seized my belly. “Oh, that’s a bad one,” he said, rocking my hip and giving counterpressure. “Gentle breaths through?”

I made an involuntary moan; Mervyn’s fingers pressed my right side deeply and the pain relented. “Good job. You’re a trouper. May I help you up? You’ll need to release soon.”

I agreed and heard the French doors click shut just as I sat on the toilet. Soon enema was rushing out of me. After a break, another wave came and I felt my cecum empty. I flushed, ran the bidet, and went back to bed.

Mervyn politely re-entered the room. “Better?”

“Completely.”

“Good. You rest; I’ll clean up and let myself out.”

“Mervyn?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For this.”

“Just doing my job,” he said.