So, Jillie asked me to write about how we met, Tony and I, because it fits into her enema themed stories. I guess that's a strange way for us to have met, but I guess that's a kind of strange theme for stories, too. Well, here goes. I was waiting for a plane back to Boise on an icy, wintry day. The airport was nearly empty because flights were being canceled left and right, but the Boise flight was only delayed, but then delayed again, and then again - an 8:40 morning flight, now still hopeful at 3:00 PM. I had gotten to know the rather distinguished looking guy sitting almost next to me - next but for my luggage between us, and then his own luggage, too - well enough that we could ask each other to watch our belongings while we hit the can or went to stare at the monitors. He told me that his name was Tony, and I could see that by his luggage tags. He looked trustworthy, and after sitting for hours uneventfully I had figured that he probably wasn't going to take off for scoring a case full of my underwear, so I asked if he'd watch my bags while I went to the restroom; then a few minutes after my return, we traded roles. And then we began to chat off and on, between the newspapers we were half-reading and half rather vacantly staring at. He was a good fifteen years older than I and good looking, but what I most admired about him was that he seemed, his whole demeanor somehow, fully employed – and probably at a good executive or at least office job. Geez, though, what I would have given to be employed just then! I had lost my administrative job when the factory closed up three months before, and I'd had only part-time work waiting tables since then. It wasn't too difficult and I had done it before, during college, but the pay was unpredictable, except for being low. I could manage witressing for a while if it was full-time work, and at a fancy hotel, or like that. My trip had been to keep a pledge: ten years before, at the end of our college days, my best three buddies and I had promised to meet up once for a few days of reunion every two years; now, at the end of our fifth meeting, at least three of the four of us gals had been to each of our get-togethers; the fourth had moved to some Island near Cyprus. I'd spent most of my last savings for the plane trip, but I figured that I was doing it partly to check out job prospects elsewhere. I was quite expert at the factory management and accounting software I had used, but it was quite specialized for an industry which itself was no longer thriving - not in the U.S. I wasn't from Boise originally, and perhaps I wouldn't be much longer either. I was even thinking that I'd have to move in with a girlfriend, pretty much for charity, when my next rent was due. At least I was dressed pretty well; I'd scraped the closet and brought decent clothing to my reunion, though as it turned out I didn't happen into any notable job opportunities. I tried to steer my intermittent little short chats with Tony, the employed-looking dude, toward his work, hoping that he might mention some job leads. He told me that he was a historian, a professor, and I mentioned my own interest in history. I mentioned that I had been recently to an exhibit on Egyptian history, but that mostly I was interested in more recent history of the Mediterranean area. I think mentioning the Egyptian exhibit was a mistake, sort of like saying that I was an artist because I'd seen the traveling exhibit of the Mona Lisa portrait. Besides, I think professors mostly are a little bit too certain of themselves. Professors and lawyers. I saw that he thought I was just being sociable so I challenged him to ask me about Mediterranean history. At first he laughed, then as I pestered him he finally did ask - and wonder of wonders, he asked about the Spanish civil war! About that subject I could talk for hours or more - but I think I only did for a full ten minutes or so. Even so, Tony was amazed by some of my detail, so I explained that he had hit upon the perfect single topic to test my knowledge, because my grandfather had gone over as a volunteer in the Lincoln Brigades fighting fascism, and I had grown up on dinner-table tales of his adventures and bravery, on songs of the International Brigades, on old anti-Franco posters probably still hanging on walls in that basement. That broke the ice, and we chatted pretty much non-stop for the rest of the hour: he was a widower, and he had been visiting his kid in college down in Texas. His wife had been killed by a drunk driver years before, when they had been married barely ten years, and he'd become a bit introverted since then. He had only been in Boise about four years, moving there for the clean and open spaces and for a faculty position. We chatted lightly; then finally, around five, we were all dismissed and told to report back for the 8:40 flight next morning, which promised to have enough open seats. Fortunately, the Boise flight was canceled not by the weather, which had substantially improved, but for some unspecified reason which we never unambiguously learned –‘a part’ we were told - so we did get vouchers for dinner and a hotel. Otherwise, I’d be sleeping in the terminal for sure. I suggested to Tony that we go get dinner together - I wasn't really thinking beyond that - but he told me that he was having a stomach problem and probably wouldn't have any dinner, even with our vouchers; he even offered his meal voucher to me. Sensing my disappointment, he offered to accompany me and maybe have some soup at least. I told him that in my purse I had some stuff to settle my stomach - that sometimes when I flew I'd have to potty all the time, and that the medicine really helped me a lot. He paused, then told me that his problem was just the opposite, and he was always afraid to take anything when he was on travel for fear there'd be no bathrooms ready if he had to need one fast. Before I could even think how forward I was being I suggested that if we stopped at the hotel first and got our rooms I could give him a quick and easy little enema and he'd probably feel back to normal still in time for dinner. If I hadn't almost flabbergasted Tony about my Spanish Civil War knowledge, I'm sure he would have just mumbled something and run away. I realized that I had started something, though, and I would have to follow through or apologize, so I just went on about enemas, not really stopping to judge his reaction. I told him how these friends I'd just visited, back in our college days were always helping one or the other with an enema, and how comfortable I could be for him. He didn't seem in any way enthusiastic, but he wasn't saying no either, or running, so I just took his hand and took the lead toward the voucher hotel and dinner. Fortunately the designated hotel was in a well-populated district close by, just off a strip shopping center, and with a free shuttle van to the airport; as the hotel shuttle passed I noted a pharmacy just doors down from our lodging. I pointed out the drugstore to Tony, but he didn’t really make any reply. Tony wasn't talking about any enema plans: he hadn't really said a word about that - no agreement, no questions, no whining, nothing - but he did give me a twenty once we had checked in - to go buy 'it' - and I told him I'd be back from the drugstore in ten minutes. I got him a disposable enema syringe bag kit which came with a packet of castile soap, some rubber gloves, and some string, and I also got him a small pack each of glycerin and bisacodyl suppositories; I had enough to give him a good enema, and to show him suggestions for his future travel. Finally, I pocketed a good handful of salt packets from the condiment rack by the take-away foods cooler, so we could make the water approach a saline solution. Well, Tony had not disappeared when I came back. I found his room, down on the opposite end of the hall from mine. He apparently had not determined to offer resistance, though he was obviously self-conscious and preparing to become as embarrassed as he had ever been. He mumbled that he felt really awkward, but he thought that he really did need an enema, probably, and would certainly need one if he didn't poop by the next day. Even so, he thought that my coming out of nowhere for this just in time for his need was unexpected almost to being weird; he didn't know what to say or do - whether to try to be humorous or... what? I told him that I wanted him to not make a big deal out of this, even if it was just about the weirdest thing that happened to him since he was sixteen: just to relax, and to let me - and the enema - completely take control of his body with no embarrassment or resistance or even comment, more than necessary. I told him that if his being naked, or my touching him, made him aroused, that wouldn't bother me as long as he didn't feel the need to attack me, and it wouldn't bother me even if his enema treatment worked in possibly embarrassing ways. He said that I seemed to know enough about enemas, but that was about all he said. So, we did the enema. Tony was a fine patient and did just what I told him, relaxing with almost no comment even when he got really beet red. Good trooper! I gave him a soapsuds enema first - I was going to just give part of it and the rest on a second try, but it all went in well - and I followed with a really relaxing rinse-out which I accompanied by some massage. Tony was surprised when I came to him on the toilet and rubbed his shoulders and guided his elimination, but he didn't object and tried to let the enema out in the long, easy stream as I guided him. Well, I'm not into writing about stuff like how the tube slipped forward, sliding easily into his wispy rosebud ass - or whatever - I mean, since this was really a pretty clinical enema anyway. I just did the enema and it worked. Wow, how Tony's enema did work! Tony pooped for ten minutes, then every few minutes for the next half hour. Finally, though, he said that he was empty, he thought, and totally spent, but felt lighter and fresher than he had in ages. I suggested that we rest for an hour and then see how we felt about dinner. I snuggled gently next to him and told him that I liked him better after an enema because professors so often had a bit of an arrogant air, but that it was hard to keep that up through an enema. Ahh – I think he was already asleep when he hit the pillow. Well, by eight o'clock we were awake from our nap and ready for dinner: Tony was quite empty and ravenous, and I was nearly so; we had almost nothing at the airport, with even water at almost $4 a bottle. We decided not to go for much of a walk in case Tony had to poop again, so we ate in the hotel restaurant and chatted well together over our shrimp and salmon dinners. We covered a whole range of topics, factual and opinion, and Tony finally really thanked me for taking care of his bowel problem. He actually did know a lot more about history than I did, as I'd expect and hope, but I knew more about sports and music and car engines, as well as enough history and world affairs to make our discussions interesting to both of us. And I really did know more about the Spanish Civil War, probably. I was getting used to being the forward one, so I asked him if he'd like me to stay with him that night, to snuggle but not for real sex, and he agreed that he would like it. He had missed that sort of thing - for years. Sometimes he got tempted, but he had managed not to get involved with any students. We kept talking into the night, and as we talked and stroked each other we developed a sense of intimacy and of caring and tenderness and easy trust in how we cared for each other's bodies. I had no plans ahead except for job hunting, and barely even ideas about a place to stay in Boise after my rent ran out, which I had mentioned in passing, so during one of my mini-massage sessions an especially mellow-feeling Tony invited me to move in to his extra bedroom in return for chores, which would be a bit of housekeeping and mostly editing some papers he was preparing. He had recently authored a book on Russian history with more of a community and cultural focus than strictly a political or military one. He had been returning from a kickoff for the book when I met him, as well as working in a visit to his son, and over the next six weeks he had four trips following to promote his book and to attend conferences. We traveled together, he covering expenses and I selling his books from a folding table and acting as nurse if he needed such services - but mostly, we traveled together just for our growing friendship. After that round of travel was done - San Francisco, Atlanta, New York and Boston, Chicago - our closeness was developing. Tony helped get me a decent job in the college administration - just thirty-two hours a week but with full benefits; I'd been really worried for the last weeks, since my health coverage had ended. We started doing enemas for each other regularly every two weeks or so, on Saturday mornings, and we started sleeping together routinely, though still companionately, without intercourse. Then, one night, I drew him more closely to me than usual; he was hesitant, but I told him it was okay, that he knew that I was safe and I wanted him. The next morning Tony said something about getting condoms, but I asked him no, that for the next year or so maybe we could just do rhythm, and that next month we could get married. And, well, so we did. I thought that was a sweet enough little story, but Jillie urged me - persuasively - to go on and tell more of the ‘good parts,’ which kind of make me blush to write about, because I guess she means any raunchy parts. So I will try to put on my best raunch. Anyway, you can’t see me blushing now. Seriously, though, don't we all owe such an immense debt to gay people, for just being able to assert their desires and really, their selves. I guess that our own real embarrassment should be not to be able to do as much for ourselves, and feel held back by embarrassment over our little foibles.