Absolutely . . . and for decades. I raise this question here on the forum. Heredity? Environment?
I have some evidence that there is a genetic component to my obsession. My father confided in me as a young married man that he frequently gave himself an enema prior to making love with my mother. I know there were enema bags prominently displayed in the bathrooms of bother maternal and fraternal grand-parents.
Red on my mother's side. Blue on my father's side. What accounted for the fact that at a very early age, I would tell little white lies to my maternal grandmother in a way that would guarantee that the red bag and a bar of Ivory would soon appear. When I was in my 50's a therapist knew that my wife was severely disabled. She asked me, "How do you take care of your sexual needs?" I did not hesitate. "My wife has beautiful small hands. After a series of three or four enemas we are ready for creative play." I did not yet know that there was a term for that - fisting.
The therapist asked, "How did that get started?" I told the truth. "My grandma gave me lots of enemas as I was growing up and I loved them." The therapist's response was troubling to me. "If that were to happen today your grandmother would go to jail for sexual abuse of a minor." I didn't return to that counselor. My insistence that we were talking about the 1940's and 1950's didn't register with her.
In terms of environment, there was rarely a time when the enema equipment was not evident in the bathroom. At my Gram's house, the bag was hung on the shower curtain rod. I know that she gave enemas to my grandfather. She also gave enemas to my two "uncles." Uncle Al and Uncle Charlie were clothing salesmen, serving the department stores in Seattle. I think they were probably gay. Gram issued a warning to me. "Take care of your bowels or you will have to have enemas every day like Al and Charlie."
That got my little brain working over time.
At my parents' home the box containing all the enema equipment was on the top shelf of the linen closet.Whenever mother went to that closet, my heart started pounding. Someone was going to get an enema.
I wondered who. If it was me, I usually had prior notice. "Have you had a BM today?" "When was the last time?" There would follow a series of events. First, a tablespoon of Fletchers' Castoria. I liked the taste in spite of being told I would not like it,
Out would come the box. Mother would kneel beside the claw foot bath tub. She would adjust the temperature of the water until it was just right. She filled the bag to the brim, holding a bar of Ivory at the opening of the bag. I still remember seeing the soap suds billowing out.
I was instructed to get on the rug on the bathroom floor. I remember seeing the dust curls under the bathtub.
Usually I took the whole bag without a pause. Mother would leave as I expelled the enema. I appreciate that.
I'm convinced that my preoccupation with enemas today is an interweaving of heredity and environment.