The following relates a true event that occurred some 20 years ago. I don’t know why nor do I know how the women in my life, first my mother and then later my wife, were able to intuitively keep track of my bowel habits.
It was a Wednesday night and like many other nights I would go to bed with something to read. On occasion it might be a magazine article from a trade journal, but more often than not it was a book, usually non-fiction. This particular night it was early, probably between 8:30 and 9:00. Sharon came into the bedroom took one look at me and said, “Wes, you’re in bed already. Are you feeling OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. A little tired, but I’ve been working hard the past few weeks.”
“Well, you look a little pale and it is unlike you to not have much energy.”
“No, really. I’m fine.”
“But it isn’t like you to be in bed at this hour.”
“I could be sitting at my desk reading this.”
“But you aren’t. I’m worried about you. Have you been to the bathroom lately? I know that when you are really busy that you have been known to ignore things like that.”
“It has been a couple of days I guess, but now you are sounding like my mother when I was growing up.”
“And what would mom had done if you said you hadn’t gone for a few days?”
“Probably without even asking gone to the hall closet and gotten out the enema bag. She was a real bug about that.”
“You do know that I’m a real believer in the benefit of a good enema every now and then.”
“I know you take them every so often, but I’m different. I don’t get a menstrual period every four weeks.”
“That might be true, but it doesn’t mean that your system might not need a little bit of help every now and then. At the moment I think it might right about now. So how about I make you a nice soapy enema?”
“You don’t have to go to that fuss.”
“Yes, I do. You’re my husband and I need to take good care of you. I’m not going to take “no” for an answer and will be right back.”
Sharon hadn’t been gone more than 15 minutes when she returned to the bedroom holding our combination syringe that bulged with its contents of warm soapy water. “Now, get out of bed, take off your pajama bottoms and lie back down,” she commanded.
“Oh, Sharon . . .”
“Oh, Sharon nothing. Just do as I say.”
“You’re sounding like my mom.”
“So what. You need a good cleaning out. So let’s go.” It was apparent that Sharon, also like my mom was not going to back down on this so I did what she said. Soon I was face down on the bed, she lubed my bum, inserted the pipe, and started the enema.
“This brings back memories!” I exclaimed. “And not necessarily good ones, I might add.”
“Nonsense. Now just take a couple of deep breaths.” Was this déjà vu or what? Nevertheless, I did what I was told, but I was starting to feel fuller. . . a lot fuller.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it? You took the whole bag,” said Sharon removing the pipe from my bum. She took it to the bathroom and placed it in the sink, but then vacated the space so I could go relieve myself. I fought the urge to expel for what seemed the longest time, but then gave in to it. I hated to admitted it, but Sharon was right because I really did need that enema and felt much better as a result.
When I went back into the bedroom, Sharon, who was now in bed, looked up at me and said, “You look so much better” and at that turned down the edge of the blanket revealing a naked breast. What an invitation! And, yes, I did get my reward for taking the enema like a good boy.