To the best of my knowledge, enemas were not used in our home when I was a child -- and like many kids, I was curious enough to be classified a snoop, so I'm sure I'd have run across something as conspicuous as a bag and hose in my exploring of the premises. But even if enemas had been part of our family scene, it would not, probably even today, occur to me spontaneously that they might have meant an erotic experience for my mother. It's not that I deny she was a sexual being or pure as the driven snow. Like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, we get past all that by age ten at most, and I'm well past that! But she was so consistently proper in her role as The Mom, I have no example of sexuality to recall. Then, I couldn't even imagine her going through the motions necessary for pregnancy -- even though she had three of us, maybe before in vitro fertilization was a procedure available for humans. She did have a less prim sister whose body in a bathing suit I allowed myself to admire. Like Eugene Morris Jerome in Brighton Beach Memoirs, my wandering mind appreciated my aunt's assets, which were pretty ample and mesmerizing as they'd jiggle in a game of volleyball or a trot back into the water. And then I'd feel a wave of shame for entertaining such thoughts and knowing that Little Willie was standing proud in my trousers!