I'm not sure why enemas are so erotic, so I want to investigate the psychological side of it. In my mind, enemas are linked to intimacy and naughtiness both.
When was that activity imprinted on my brain as a significant event? With the first enema I ever got? That event goes way back.
When I was a toddler, I entered the “Terrible Twos” and became insufferably independent and demanding. If I hadn’t been spanked regularly, you can bet my parents would probably have had to chase me down the middle of the highway at rush hour.
It’s a matter of survival for a child to learn to obey. “Don’t run with scissors!” “Get back from the edge of that cliff!” “Don’t put that deflated balloon in your mouth!” If children won’t take orders, they may die. Nothing works better than spankings to drive home lessons. Except for enemas, perhaps, in certain situations.
When my mother told me that I was getting an enema, and not even knowing what it was, my first knee-jerk response was to use my favorite word, “NO!” Then it became a contest. Refusing to take my clothes off got them pulled off me. Refusing to lie down and lift my knees meant I was forced across her lap and had my anus lubricated against my will. Refusing to stop struggling meant a spanking on the bare butt.
Because my mother was a gentle person, spanking me was like poking a bear with a sharp stick – it only made me madder.
My defiance toward potty training had led to retaining my stool as often as I could. Was that my first experience with the satisfaction of a full bowel? I won, she lost. I’m the champion!
Or so I thought.
Lying across her lap, I resisted as vigorously as a tiny person can. Oh, so humbling when a nozzle was inserted into my rectum and my bowels filled with warm water in spite of my furious struggles. My personal dignity was assaulted when one of the most important possessions I owned was taken from me by force. My power had, up until that moment, depended on my control of my own bowel movements. It had been the one thing I could hold over my mother’s head during negotiations that led to gifts and bribes.
When my distended belly cramped sharply, I suddenly realized the battle was lost. Psychologically, I had to surrender control completely to my mother. Begging and pleading didn’t soften her resolve. I took water until she decided to stop injecting it. I held the water as long as she squeezed my butt cheeks together tightly. With a whimper, I gave up. My rebellion faded to nothing as I recognized the blessing of being allowed to sit on the toilet.
Afterward, I viewed my mother with new respect. She had seized control over my one negotiating strategy and left me feeling subdued. Knowing she could induce a bowel movement in me anytime she chose was an attitude adjustment I sorely needed at that time. She found me to be a much more compliant child after that.
In spite of my fight for independence, my mother was the person I trusted the most. Since the day she gave me life and breath, then provided mother’s milk from her ample breasts, I loved her more than anything in the world. However, she was a private person who didn’t like to be touched or to have her hair mussed. I never got hugs and kisses. But I never forgot the day she had her hands all over my bare skin and invaded my lower body with copious amounts of warm water, then afterward bathed me and dressed me in fresh clothing. In a crazy way, I felt very special. I love that memory still.