It was my mom. I was maybe eight years old and I remember that afternoon as if it were yesterday. I had been ill and told me she had to give me some medicine in my bottom. What? Am I hearing this right? The thought of someone putting anything in my bottom was incomprehensible, the notion horribly humiliating, embarrassing, and frightening. We were not an "enema" or "rectal thermometer" family as many of you have written about. We were an uptight, British, "these things are just not done" sort of clan. I don't think my mother had seen me naked since I was an infant.
That being said, she pulled out the big gun, and was willing to put me in front of the firing squad. You see, I was DEATHLY afraid of going to the doctor. The doctor was where you received shots and any number of horrors. I was given a choice. Submit to the medicine or be taken to the doctor. Really? I was herded to her bedroom. I was upset to the point of tears which were dripping on my tummy as I undid my pants, as instructed, then removed my underwear. I saw a silver packet and a tube of something on her nightstand. She sat on the side of the bed, in a tailored skirt, nylons and black high heels. Yes. I remember. I was forced to take "the position" over her knees, head and legs draping down on either side. My butt was clenched so tight, you couldn't have pounded a buttered nail into me with a hammer.
I was in agony only imaging what was to come. I could feel her squirming about, preparing whatever it was she was preparing. Then she tried to pry me open and I fought back. Then SMACK! It was a white hot searing pain she administered along with "don't fight me, Johnny." I had never been spanked. Never. It was a real eye opener and the tears of frustration now flowed like a river. I was sobbing. She used this distraction to quickly shove the suppository up me along with the length of her finger.
"OH MY GOD" or whatever cursing came to an eight year old's mind. The sensation was stunning and my attention became hyper-focused on that one part of my body that had a finger in it. "Ohhhhhhhhh..... take it out. Take it out!" But she didn't. I was squirming like a landed fish and she was holding me down hard with one hand and had me hooked with her finger of the other.
Finally, I broke free. "Don't you poop it out or I'll have to put in another one," was all I heard as I ran to my room, sat in the corner and cried.
I think this was the moment I was sensitized to all things anal. I realized my mom was only trying to help me. But those sensations are seared in my brain. It wasn't until many years later that I would find a great deal of pleasure in the very thing I had run away from.