The first enema I remember getting was when I was about 4. I can recall my sister getting one -- as I watched mom slipping the tip of the bulb syringe up Laura's bottom. She was crying; mainly I think because mom allowed me to watch the process at close range. I was hooked!
It's entirely possible that I had received enemas before that (Laura was probably 5 or 6 when I saw the rectal tube inserted in her anus.) But I don't honestly remember getting or seeing one in progress.
We had moved from one farm place too another the year before I started school. It was a cold day; there was snow on the ground and I was upstairs in the bathroom trying to force a big turd out of my small bottom. I decided I needed to tell mom about the problem, stood up, pulled up my pajama pants and underwear and headed downstairs. Mom was talking to dad at the foot of the stairs. They stopped their conversation and said good morning. Mom looked at me quizzically--somehow she knew I wanted something.
"Mom, there's one up there but it won't come out," I told her. Somehow I knew what she would suggest.
"How about an enema?" mom asked.
"No-o-o-..." I said while squirming around a little and putting my hands over my bottom.
"Yes--you go on upstairs to your bedroom and I'll be up in a few minutes.
Dad got an extraordinary expression on his face---communicating that he was happy he was not in line for rectal visitation. He didn't say anything and went outside to work. I, meanwhile, obediently climbed the steep stairway and entered my room. It was cold in there, the bed was as yet unmade, clothes were sorted in piles for washing later in the day. I was starting to be both nervous and excited. After having seen Laura get her enema, I had taken to surreptitiously inserting things in my butt, in order to find out what Laura may have felt when she was getting hers. Now I was about to get the real thing. Looking back, that was the beginning of my sexual feelings about enemas and nearly all things rectal.
Mom's footsteps could be heard as she mounted the stairs and walked to the bathroom. I knew she kept the little red and black enema syringe in the drawer of a small white cabinet. My anticipation became more intense as I heard the drawer pulled open, pushed shut followed by running water as she filled the glass we kept in the bathroom for brushing teeth (yeah, it doesn't sound the most sanitary to me, either, but that's the way things worked at our house.)
My mother crossed the hall and came into my room. She was holding the glass, the enema bulb sticking up from the top of the plastic cup. It probably held 4 to 6 ounces, much like my sister had received when I watcher her treatment probably a year before. She didn't bring a towel with her. I was to learn over the years that she never did that and one wonders what she would have done if I had leaked enema water on the bed.
"OK," mom said, "pull down your pajamas and your underwear. Then curl up in a ball on your bed." Resistance was futile, but yet I was anxious to have the enema stuck up my butt. I let my flannel jams hit the floor, pulled my underwear down and climbed up on the bed as instructed, offering my small bottom to mom's ministrations.
She set the glass and enema syringe on the floor and I heard the bubbles as she squeezed the bulb and released it to fill. She put her hand on my right butt cheek, pulled it up and slipped the enema tube into my rectum. I felt the water enter me, it seemed cold--colder than the room. I glanced over my bare hip to see mom's face while she gave that bulb full. She seemed focused on her task at hand and one could surmise she found the process agreeable, even enjoyable.
The process of filling the bulb, spreading my cheeks and inserting the enema tip in my anus continued a few more times until the glass was empty.
"You can go to the bathroom now," she told me. There was no need to urge me to hurry, though I don't remember if I paused long enough to pull up my pants. I plopped down on the toilet. Water started pouring out of my butthole, then solid stool, then more water and finally a big turd. Mom inspected the results and decided I didn't need more treatment. That, I thought, was a shame. Little did I know the urges planted when I got my first enema would grow and persist for a lot of years.