I was raised in a very strict Christian home. Our family belonged to the Church of the Nazarene. This is a fundamentalist sect that hold to very strict beliefs, applied mostly to girls and women. We weren't supposed to wear makeup, that was sinful (promoted lust), Hair styles were simple (buns, pony tails, straight, etc.). Clothing was plain, skirts long, no open tops, collars up. Sex was sinful in both thought and deed when conducted out of marriage. But boys were, of course, off limits. Contact between the sexes was limited to "nice" group activities, church dances, skating parties and the like. Life was simple. It was to lived to avoid sin and decadence. I accepted this lifestyle without question until..........

Puberty. My girlfriends and I began to mature. Bodies began to change. Attitudes began to change. All but mine. I still accepted the traditional attitudes long ingrained. But most of my friends didn't. All they were concerned with was boy, boys, and more boys. They were all obsessed. I thought, how wrong, how misguided they were. I prayed for them to see their errors. I couldn't understand or accept this deviant behavior.

They were obsessed with something else, too. Their own bodies and the strange new feelings that could be coaxed from them. The open discussion topic may have been boys, but the subliminal topic was self exploration. The whispered conversations were about the ways to touch yourself and the wonderful feelings that happened when you "did it". Girls told each other how and secretively compared results. It was bad to mess around with boys, but no one said anything about other girls. I, of course, was above all this and would have no part of. My religion again "protected" me. I was referred to as "the old maid" by my friends.

Sleep over's at each others houses were favorite forums for these type of activities. There was lots of bed-hopping and whispers after lights out and plenty of strange sounds. One time a girl friend slipped into my bed and began to kiss and fondle me. I promptly slapped her hard enough to let her know that I meant business and pushed her out. Sometimes, now, I wish that I had let her stay. Make no mistake, 13 and 14 year old girls are a horny bunch!

It was a different story for me when I was alone, though. Countless times I tried and tried to get those feelings that my friends seemed to achieve at will. It never seemed to work for me. Nothing much ever happened. Pretending disdain, I hung on every whispered word, hoping to identify the secret clue that would make it happen. No success. I rationalized that the guilt I felt when "doing it" was my religion warning and protecting me. The frustration of failure and the feeling that I was, somehow, not a complete girl ever abated. I finally was old enough to date boys and my repressed desires began to over rule my upbringing. Boys could make happen what I had been unable to, and I loved it. I actually became promiscuous. But sex had evolved into something that someone did TO me. I felt as though I had no control over my own sexuality and this dissatisfaction remained well into adulthood and marriage.

I suffered a severe auto accident last year and spent several days in the hospital recovering from a bad concussion and other injuries. Just before I was discharged, I was given an enema. To my shock and surprise, I responded to it sexually. It was all I could muster to keep from orgasming right in front of the nurse giving it to me!

I couldn't do very much for months after leaving the hospital so I had plenty of time to think. The experience with the enema fascinated me. It was a profound experience. I wondered how other women reacted, if mine was unique or typical. I began to search the web with my computer for enema information and discovered a great deal of activity. Many people harbored clandestine interest in enemas and took them on their own for the pleasurable reactions I had experienced. I became clear that, in all probability, I could achieve my own orgasm using enemas as the stimulation source.

My dilemma was the conflict between old frustrations and new knowledge. Wasn't I a little old to still be interested in jacking off? My husband was unsurpassed at satisfying me, but would I always be dependent on someone else for that satisfaction? Wasn't an enema a pretty extreme measure? Would this be like cheating on my husband? Would he accept this kind of activity? He had never encouraged me to masturbate and took great delight in doing it to me. Was it selfish to want a sexual release of my own (religion again)? Would enemas actually work for me, or was it the act of someone else giving it to me that caused the sexual reaction like all the other times. I pondered these questions for almost a year after leaving the hospital. I finally decided that the only way to resolve this was to actually try it.

It took several tries to work up enough courage. I had the equipment in my hands in drug stores many times but couldn't bring myself to buy it. About three weeks ago, my husband and boys went on a week long deer hunting trip. This is a male bonding ritual in the area where I live. At last I had time to myself. It was now or never. I drove to a nearby larger town that had a couple medical supply houses. The first one I walked into had a whole shelf of Fleet Large Volume Enema sets. I grabbed one, nervously paid for it and drove home. I spent most of the rest of the day just looking at it, took it out of its box and examined it. The more I looked, the more memories returned and the more excited I became.

The anticipation rose and I finally filled the container with warm water with a little Dove soap dissolved in it. I swished the cake around in the bathroom sink until the water was cloudy and filled the container pouch full. I tried to duplicate the hospital as closely as I could. My hands were shaking and my heart was pounding. The tube tip was protected by a green plastic sheath that lubricated the end of the tubing. I removed the sheath and inserted the tip into my rectum. I hung the container from a towel rack next to the toilet and sat down on the toilet, took a deep breath and slid the clamp open.

Well, the earth didn't exactly move and rockets didn't explode but the stimulating feeling was there like at the hospital. I took until it started to hurt and quit. I liked it. This was going to be all right. I waited for about an hour and did another one. I wasn't so nervous and fumbly and my confidence was building. I was able to take over half of the container. As I strained to hold it in, a weak orgasm happened, the first one ever completely on my own. I was so happy tears came to my eyes. Finally!

I spent the whole next day taking enemas and stimulating myself to orgasm upon orgasm. It was a day in ecstasy. Ecstasy like in the scriptures. This is what had so captivated my friends. No wonder. I experimented with different techniques, laying down, kneeling, standing. Each brought its own delights. I was like a kid in a candy store, I did almost nothing else for the remainder of the week. By the time my family returned, I was satisfied, contented, and exhausted.

This whole experience has changed my attitudes on many things. I realized that my rigid upbringing probably robbed me of the excitement of maturing to adulthood. And that being blindly critical and judgmental makes one less of a person rather than a superior person. I still give myself enemas whenever I get some time to myself, which isn't often. But when I do I make the most of it.

Sandy G

interested_too@hotmail.com