I’m sorry these recollections run a little long, but I truly don’t know how to explain how my early childhood enemas came to be erotic for me as an adult in fewer words, so here goes.
To begin with, I’m pretty sure I was anally erotic right out of the womb. Of course, I don’t remember any of this, but it wouldn’t surprise me if my mother either purposefully or inadvertently anally stimulated me as an infant with rectal temps and bulb enemas, or anal cleaning when I was in diapers. Because my mother kept an infant enema bulb in our medicine closet, I know she must have used it on me before I reached five years of age, but I truly don’t remember it.
The first enema I remember, was a bag enema at five years of age, and it was in preparation of my going into the hospital to have my tonsils removed. That was a very memorable experience that I will be glad to share if asked. But for this discussion group I will share an enema experience I had when I was six or seven.
I remember laying in my mother’s bed when I was sick with some childhood malady. And I can remember feeling much trepidation while hearing my mother moving around in the bathroom while wondering what she was doing. I also remember hoping and praying she wasn’t making up an enema for me. She had just given my next older sister an enema, and I can remember listening outside the bathroom door, hearing my sister begging my mother to please stop her enema, and to take its nozzle out of her fanny. Even though I had no concept of sex, I can remember experiencing strange and wonderful feelings emanating from my penis, anus, and groin area while listening to my sister’s pleas.
Like all other six-year-olds, being sick was an unpleasant experience, but for me it was always made worse by the fact that I feared I might have to submit to a rectal temperature, or enema at any moment. Neither of those procedures were particularly painful or uncomfortable, but for me, both were extremely humiliating and embarrassing. And so it was that humiliation and embarrassment that caused me to pray that my mother wasn’t in the bathroom soaping up an enema for me. Yet, in my heart of hearts I was all but sure that was exactly what she was doing. I wanted to disappear, or somehow distance myself from what was going on in the bathroom. Yet, I couldn’t help listening intently as I lay in my mother’s bed while bunching up my butt cheeks as tight as I could in effort to keep any of my mother’s medical implements from going up my bottom. But inevitably, the time would come when I would hear my mother calling me into the bathroom. She knew I would be reluctant, so she would always add something like, “Don’t dally Jimmy. We don’t want your enema to get cold.” Or maybe “Hurry along Jimmy. You know you’ll feel much better when this is all over.”
Our only bathroom was right next to my parent’s bedroom, so the trip was short. Yet every step was difficult as I knew what awaited me in the bathroom. Even though I was only six, I knew to lock the bathroom door after entering, as I knew my sister was aware of the fact that my mother would soon be working her enema nozzle in my anus and rectum, and so might think of an excuse to enter so she could see my naked bottom with an enema hose coming from between my butt cheeks.
My mother’s first words would be something like, “Okay Jimmy. It’s time for you to slip out of your underwear. I made it real warm in here, so you won’t get cold.”
It’s true at this point that I can’t remember exactly what happened at every individual enema, but it wasn’t uncommon for my mother to then assist me out of my white cotton T-shirt and underpants. And then she would take me by the hand, and after sitting on the closed toilet lid, she would pull me across her lap. She was very gentle, but never shy about where she placed her hands while she positioned my naked body so my anus would be conveniently located and totally available to her. And once I was in the exact position she wanted, I would feel the thumb and forefinger of her left hand in my butt cleavage prying my cheeks apart at my anus. It was highly embarrassing for me to know my mother was looking right at my most private body orifice, but it was even more embarrassing when I felt my mother’s well lubricated finger begin to trace circles around my twitching anal sphincter.
I couldn’t help it. It was as if my butt cheeks and anus had minds of their own as my butt cheeks would bunch up, and my anus would pucker even tighter. Yet I would still feel my mother’s greased finger pushing through my anus so it could work its way well up into my rectum.
To this day, it’s easy for me to recall how her finger would then move all around inside me, causing magically wonderful, and yet embarrassing feelings to emanate from my anus and rectum. Yet none of that deterred my mother from her mission of lubricating my rectum as deep as her wiggling finger could reach. And once she felt she had accomplished her task, her finger would be withdrawn, and her thermometer inserted.
My mother’s thermometer felt totally different than her finger. It was small, cold, and ridged as it twisted in my anus while sliding deep in my rectum. And even though I like the feelings and sensations that little glass rod caused, I remember trying to stop, or at least suppress its motion by pinching my butt cheeks tightly together while tightening my anus and rectum down on the moving glass rod. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, I was never successful at suppressing anything. It just seemed to be my mother’s nature to keep her thermometer moving in and out while she continued to twist and reposition its inserted end in different parts of my rectum the whole time it was absorbing my rectal warmth.
Now, I have to admit, that even though my squeezing efforts didn’t seem to slow or stop the movements of my mother’s thermometer, that effort did seem to amplify the strangely wonderful feelings those movements caused, which in turn caused my penis to stiffen and grow even more. So, even though I felt highly embarrassed and humiliated the whole time my mother’s thermometer was up my butt, I also enjoyed the strange but wonderful feelings her actions caused.
All of that caused me to have mixed and confused feelings as to whether I wanted my mother’s thermometer withdrawn, or for its sensual movements to continue on forever. When I really think about it, because I knew that when the thermometer was finally withdrawn while I was over my mother’s lap in the bathroom with her big red rubber combination enema bag hanging above me, the next thing I would feel would be her adult enema nozzle pushing through so it could immediately begin to fill my little boy rectum and colon with warm soapy water.
I loved my mother. And even though I trusted her and her medical knowledge; and even though I liked the feel of her adult sized enema nozzle moving around in my rectum, I was usually full of dread, because I knew it wouldn’t be long before its spewing warm soapy water would fill and expand my rectum and colon until I feared it might actually pop. I also feared the growing volume in my gut might at any moment reach a pressure that my anus could no longer hold against, and I would have an embarrassing accident right in front of my mother.
Because my loving mother passed away almost 35 years ago (at age 84), I have no way of ever finding out the truth. But I highly suspect that turning me on sexually while administering my enemas was one of her goals. And I think that was true because she was just too good at turning me on, that doing so had to have at least been part of her goal. And when you add to that, that she was always massaging, caressing, and comforting me, especially my butt cheeks, while she kept her enema nozzle in all but constant motion, she had to know that was why my penis was always so erect and pushing directly into her lap the whole time that procedure went on.
Of course, I didn’t have the slightest concept of sex in those days, but the feelings my childhood enemas caused have forever caused me to do everything I can to re-live those long-ago feelings and sensations on an almost daily basis. And by that, I don’t just mean the feel of a well lubricated thermometer or enema nozzle moving around in my rectum under someone else’s control, nor the feel of my over expanded colon and tummy, nor the worry I felt that my anus might not be able to hold against the building pressure in my rectum, but also the feelings of embarrassment and humiliation I felt at being so naked and exposed while my mother was paying so much attention to my little boy fanny and asshole.
Now, having shared all of the above, I have to say that it’s funny how the things we dreaded as children seem to end up turning us on as adults. All I can say, is that I wouldn’t change one second of my childhood. And I truly feel sorry for those men and women whose mothers never demanded they submit themselves to the truly erotic glory of a good old fashioned Ivory soaped enema, because it is those enemas that have since become the erotic foundation that have brought me to so many mind-blowing orgasms over my 81 years.