Just to give you a little background, I’ll tell you that I grew up in the 1950’s. They were peaceful pleasant years. World War II had been won, the Korean conflict seemed only to stimulate our economy, and America was prospering while riding a lucrative industrial wave. Good paying jobs were plentiful for the average man, and new tract homes had become widely available to middle class families all across America.
I was brought up in one of those middle class tract homes in the heart of Tennessee. We didn’t just consider ourselves middle class, but we were proud of that distinction. My father was a hardworking dependable provider, while my mother made a comfortable and happy home for my twin brothers and me. Although everything seemed perfect at the time, by today’s standards medicine was still operating in a rather primitive realm, especially compared to today’s “pill for everything” technology. Penicillin was still new, and a boon to fighting bacterial infections. But you were on your own when it came to viruses, and little was truly known or understood about life’s most threatening maladies, such as cancer, heart disease, and diabetes.
And so it’s medical treatments that are at the heart of my story, and more precisely a device comprised of a red rubber bag that most commonly had a long white hose coming from its bottom that usually had a small black, or sometimes white nozzle at its end. This nozzle looked innocent enough until you understood that it was specifically designed to be inserted into the anuses of reluctant patients, usually children where it far too often delivered what the patient felt was far too much warm soapy water into their lower digestive tracts. And all of that was done to cause a full and complete evacuation of the patient’s bowel, which in turn was supposed to make the patient feel better and accelerate their recovery, no matter what was ailing them.
The enema was in such common use in those days that American mothers regularly called it into service anytime they thought one of their children was suffering from almost any illness, or even sometimes when a child simply seemed cranky, tired, fatigued, or even as preventive care should a mother simply suspected that an illness might be lurking in their neighborhood.
I know that was certainly the case in our home. No matter how much my brothers and I might dread, or even fear our family’s enema bag, it was inevitable that our mother would press it into service should one of us show the slightest sign of an illness, especially if it was flu or cold season. Now because enemas were also embarrassing, even humiliating, my brothers and I, would try to avoid them at all costs. We often tried to hide or deny any early symptoms of an illness, and we never complained of constipation no matter how severe our symptoms may have been.
But there was another factor related to the enema that was never spoken of, at least by parents or doctors, and that was its sexual implications. Implications that I would venture to say were often the first sexually arousing occurrence that many children of that era experienced. I have to say that all of that was certainly true for my twin brothers and me. Through experience and late night conversations, I know that we had all been turned on by the titillating experience of having our mother lubricate our anuses and rectums in preparation for the insertion of the dreaded enema nozzle, and the eventual rectal infusion that followed. And I’ll add here, the fact that our mother was always quite thorough about all aspects of the procedure, causing this treatment to be not only embarrassing and humiliating, but undeniably sexual in a dick hardening way. In fact, I feel that it was so sexual, that when I look back on those childhood enemas I have to wonder if it wasn’t also sexual for our mother.
As a boy, I not only received several enemas from my mother while growing up, but I experienced a particularly erotic enema when I was seventeen and a senior in high school. That enema was administered to me while I was in the hospital for knee surgery. And because that enema was administered by a young male nurse or orderly who didn’t seem much older than myself, (probably 20 or 22 at the most) it turned out to be even more embarrassing and humiliating because of his titillating techniques. In fact, that experience was so sexually stimulating that it turned out to be the icing on the cake that lead me to the undeniable conclusion that I was gay, and that a career that would allow me to give enemas to other boy and young men was what I wanted to pursue in life.