Okay there has been a lot written hear about our first enemas or first remembered enemas. I totally get that as I have vivid memories of my first enema. The surprise and uncertainty and fear or terror of the first enema are all powerful emotions and often erotic. Let's change it up a bit. Let us focus on the subsequent enemas we got. My memories of those enemas are much more clear as I grew older. And my attitude toward enemas changed and evolved. I mean my prime childhood enema years were between age 11 and 16 when I got my last from mom. My experiences prior to that are memorable as well because I was trying to make sense of it all. But once I hit 11 I had started secretly enjoying enemas and found the experience and memories were/are more satisfying. I mean, I was more cooperative (somewhat) for my enemas as I grew older. I would use the dreaded and embarrassing word enema in the bathroom with mom and that gave me a thrill which is hard to explain. Of course I would avoid using the word enema at all cost outside the confines of my maternal enema experience. The thought of someone knowing I even knew what an enema was, let alone, that I was a regular receiver of one was mortifying to me. My point here is that the ritual and routine subtlety changed. At least for me. Bulb to bag. Bathroom or bedroom. Ivory soap versus castile. And the cat and mouse game of my mother tenderly suggesting an enema to insisting. How did the experience evolve for you over time? Or did it? For me they were all the same yet very different. Some were more memorable than others. Like the time when I was 13 and my family was on vacation in California and whilst my siblings went with my father to the beach, my mom held me back to give me a very serious series of bulb enemas. Even though by that age I was accustomed to the bag, instead she used a white 8 oz davol bulb syringe on me and filled me up several times to resolve a road trip induced constipation issue. I will never forget the way I could see my naked self in the vanity mirror through the reflection of the large sliding closet mirror door. Anyway my point is, this was not my FIRST enema. I was an accomplished receiver.