Fact of life: successful actors travel. So if you're lucky--which I am, very--you're away from everybody you know for months at a time, bored to death in your nice hotel room, in a city you didn't choose and can't navigate. Travel as a goddamned celebrity only compounds the headache.

Or more often, a bellyache. Different water, unfamiliar food, meals gulped on the run, who knows? Never mind that I'm only twenty-eight and still in the kind of shape that's a high school memory for other guys my age. I just know to pack the Immodium before the Excedrin.

This time it's not enough. They're almost ready for me when I have to excuse myself and speed-walk to my trailer, resisting the urge to hug my distended gut until I'm inside.

Lamar, the director, is waiting when I get back. "Is there a problem, Cody?" he says. We started off on the wrong footing, him resenting the producers forcing what he considered a no-talent pretty-boy on him in the lead, and me adopting a juvenile 'I'll-show-him!' attitude which amounted to working my ass off to be way better than he expected. In the six weeks we've been on location here, he's been fair and open-minded, although he'll show a temper if you fuck up his shooting schedule. Like I just did.

I tell him, quietly and with polite words, that I've had an upset stomach since last night and that I'm really sorry about the inconvenience. I'm mid-apology when he interrupts.

"You eat dinner at the hotel?" He's right to ask. Three-fourths of the cast and crew eat there on any given night, too tired to go anywhere.

I shrug. "Room service, but I hardly touched it."

He sighs like I've given myself crampy diarrhea on purpose. "You know where the doctor's set up? Go see him."

They've got a medical trailer to treat the stunt doubles' sprains and bruises. The doctor is young and seems nervous around the Cody Nichols. I explain about the stomache ache and runs. He asks me a lot of questions about what I've been eating, tiptoes all around but doesn't quite inquire whether I've been on the receiving end of any gay sex (which of course I haven't--I don't even like girls to mess with me there), taps my stomach a while, then gives me one pill. "It's a strong prescription, fix you up in about a half-hour," he says. "Think you can hang on?"

"Yeah, so long as I'm not too far from the plumbing."

"Good, good." He pauses, clearly uncomfortable. "Ah, can I trouble you for an autograph?"

"Trade you for the pill," I tell him. "Assuming it works, I'm coming out ahead."

The pill does work--for about four hours, enough to finish several decent takes on this morning's scene before we break for lunch, which I don't want. My belly's churning over a mild low ache. Lamar's huddled with the lighting guy, so I tell his assistant I'm heading back to the hotel because my stomach's really acting up. I wash off my make-up, trying to decide if I'm feeling the beginning of nausea.

I'm lying on the bed, deciding if it's time for the bathroom again, when the phone rings.

"Maggie told me you were sick," Lamar says.

"Yeah. The doc gave me a pill, but as soon as it wore off... I'm really sorry about what I'm doing to this afternoon's schedule, but I can't help it."

"I know. Got you an appointment with a gastroenterologist. A belly doctor. Meet your driver downstairs."

"When?"

"He should be there by now. Hit the can one last time, then go get checked out."

You snag a good role in a great director's movie, you put yourself completely in his hands. I do exactly what Lamar said.

Being famous is a bitch sometimes. There are ways, all ridiculously overpriced, of dealing with shopping, eating out, or seeing a movie, but real-world health care doesn't give a damn who you are. When I had the exhaustive physical Lamar demands for his leads, people in the waiting room stared and nudged each other before they approached me one at a time to say a few words, get an autograph, whatever.

Sick, I dread public attention. Cody Nichols is supposed to be manly, yet sensitive, not squirm in his seat during compliments then bolt for the bathroom mid-sentence.

So I instantly like the nurse who's apparently been waiting for me in the corridor, more for saving me the hassle of the waiting room than because she's pretty, which she is. "Right this way, Mr. Nichols," she says, and leads me through an unmarked door that opens on a corridor. She sees me noticing a door marked "Lavatory."

"Need to stop?"

"Uh, not yet. But I probably will."

"There's one in the treatment room," she assures me. "More private."

The room is bigger than typical doctors' cubicles. The table is in the middle, not against the wall, and I smile at the promised bathroom.

"Any time you need it, say the word," she says, smiling back. Friendly, professional, probably this pleasant to any guy with his gut in a knot. Allison O'Keefe, R.N. is a nice break from adoring fans. "Have a seat and tell me, when did this start?"

She takes a really detailed medical history that concludes with everything that went into my mouth for three days. "Not just food," she adds. "Toothbrush?"

"Of course. And floss."

"Million-dollar smile, huh? Any French kissing, or oral sexual contact?"

"In the last three days? No."

Nurse O'Keefe raises doubting eyebrows. "None?"

"It's not for lack of volunteers," I say dryly.

"No!" she says in mock disbelief, and we laugh.

At her intense questioning, I stammer through a recital of my usual dietary and bathroom habits when I'm on location. Her expression is professionally neutral, but I see disapproval underneath. "I know it's not exactly healthy, but there's just no time when I'm--"

She holds up the flat of her hand like a stop sign. "You might discuss it with Doctor. Meantime, please take everything off and put on the gown," she says, gesturing. One corner of the room has a shoulder-high curtain thing like in old Westerns, with some kind of blue printed cloth draped over it. Jotting on my chart, the nurse ignores me while I undress behind it.

She looks up from her clipboard when I grab the gown.

"It ties in back, but don't worry if you can't reach it. I'm finished here, and there's a sheet for you on the table. Doctor will be in shortly." She closes the door softly as she leaves.

I get the tie at the neck and, unable to dislocate my shoulders, give up on the one behind my back. Sitting on the table, my hips and legs draped with the sheet, I wonder why nurses call the doctors Doctor like it was their name, and if they do it with female doctors, too. Is it just the nurses, or do the secretaries and lab people say things like 'Doctor will be in shortly'? My musings don't quite distract me from my stomach woes and worry that Lamar's schedule is totaled with me not there for this afternoon's scenes.

'Shortly' turns out to be at least a half hour. There's a soft knock on the door, but before I can answer a wiry-haired guy in his thirties pokes his head in. "Mr. Nichols? Hello, I'm Dr. Reuben. Sorry for the delay, but I wanted to clear the waiting room so I could spend the time it will take to isolate the cause of your complaint."

"Uh, good. Thanks," I say, shaking his hand.

"Lie down on the table, please."

The paper crackles under me.

"Let's get your temperature," he says, and takes a thermometer out of a jar.

I open my mouth obligingly, but he shakes his head. "Please roll over."

Oh god, he needs a rectal temperature? With mild embarrassment, I rearrange my sheet carefully.

Christ, Nichols, I chide myself, get over it. He's a doctor! But I can't help my apprehension, watching him rip open a tiny white packet with a blue design, dip the fat red bulb of the thermometer into it, and come toward me with the thing thickly coated with colorless gel.

He moves my sheet more than he has to, covering my gownless back and exposing my butt completely. "So this is what moviegoers pay four dollars to see," he says, perfectly serious.

I wasn't sure he recognized me until now. With a lightness I don't feel, I say, "More than that, in big cities. Every director suddenly needs a nude scene once I'm signed on. 'Essential to the story,' my ass."

"Literally," he agrees, then opens my cheeks one-handed and touches the thermometer to me. I can't help tensing. He spreads my crack wider and slides the thermometer in without comment, then turns his back to read what his nurse wrote on my chart.

It seems like a long time before he pulls it out. I'm glad that's over, I think as I restore my sheet.

"No fever. Lie on your back now." Dr. Reuben thumps, presses, and squeezes me from the ribs to the balls, occasionally asking if what he's doing makes something hurt. Once it does, but not very badly.

He goes back to the chart. "When was your last normal bowel movement, before this diarrhea started? Allie didn't note anything."

Allie must be Allison O'Keefe, R.N. "That's because I don't remember."

"This morning?"

"No."

"Yesterday?"

I shake my head. "Maybe, but I don't think so. Sorry, I really don't remember."

He nods his understanding. "It's not all that memorable unless there's a problem. Which is what we're going to determine." From a little drawer under the table, he draws a small pillow. "Let's have you up on your hands and knees, Mr. Nichols, then lower your chest to the table. You should be comfortable enough if you cradle your head in your arms on the pillow."

As if comfort was possible in that degrading position! Still fussing with the sheet, I stick my butt up while Dr. Reuben puts on gloves. A glance shows he's set out a toothpaste-sized tube with the same blue logo as on the little packet.

"Higher, please. Good. If you'll shift your knees farther apart," he says, "yes, but wider, very good. Completely relax your abdominal muscles and drop your lower back."

The adjustment opens my butt about as wide as it goes. Justified embarrassment warms my face when I feel the sheet lift, exposing me completely before it slithers down by bare back, the edge bunching at my neck.

"Please try to relax. This won't hurt." The gloved hand touches me dead center, anointing me with more gel. It's cool for an instant as he applies it all over the outside. "Take a deep breath, Mr. Nichols, that's right..." The finger slips inside. It doesn't hurt, but it feels awful as it rotates, way worse than regular doctors' fast digital exams. Then he says, "Exhale, then breath through your mouth." Dr. Reuben's finger is memorizing my insides to a depth of two knuckles. "Fine, just try to relax a little more..."

The finger dives deeper and turns again, pressing my insides from every angle for at least two minutes before it withdraws. My relief only lasts an instant when he dabs more gel and goes in again with two fingers, so deep the web is pressing my sphincter hard. Finally they're out and his light tug on the sheet covers my upturned ass.

The breath I let out is shaky. Okay, I tell myself, pretty unpleasant but you got through it.

"Mr. Nichols, you can lie down again."

I move the sheet once more, like staying covered matters. All I need is something to wipe my slippery butt, then some medicine, and back to work. It's not so late that the afternoon is a total loss.

The doctor goes to an intercom near the door. "Allison? Treatment One, please."

"Right away, Doctor."

Dr. Reuben strips off the gloves and washes his hands, not looking at me, which is okay because I'm not looking at him, either. A second later the nurse knocks and comes in without waiting for an answer. Office policy, I guess.

"Nurse O'Keefe, please have Mr. Nichols retain four ounces of mineral oil and evaluate any returns," Dr. Reuben says. "Mr. Nichols, I'll be back with you afterward."

"Is that anything like castor oil?" I ask her after he's gone. "Because when I was little my grandmother once--"

"Nothing like it," she assures me. "You can rest easy. In fact, you should. Why don't you just ignore me, and I'll let you know when I've got everything ready, okay?"

"Okay." I turn away, and she adjusts the pillow and redrapes the sheet for me, practically tucking me in.

"Rest, Mr. Nichols," she says. "It'll be a few minutes, and frankly, you look exhausted. Or is it that I'm seeing you without makeup?"

"I hardly slept last night," I admit. "My stomach..."

"Don't worry, we'll get you fixed up. Dr. Reuben is really good. Rest now."

I close my eyes as she turns on the water to wash her hands. You'd think she was scrubbing for surgery, it runs so long. I'm almost dozing when she turns it off. I hear her nurse shoes squeak as she approaches the table. "All set. Just stay like you are, Mr. Nichols."

Before I can say, "What?" I feel cooler room air on my butt and a gloved hand lifting my upper cheek. Something hard touches me where I'm still slick, pushes past the ring of muscle, and enters a little way. It's small compared to Dr. Reuben's fingers, but still, she could have warned me!

"Not so bad, is it?"

"I thought I was going to be drinking it!" I hiss.

"Four ounces? Oh, no. You think you're sick now..." she says ominously, then laughs. "Here we go, just hold still."

At first the sensation is so slight I might be imagining it, but in a minute I'm sure something warm enters me slowly.

"Hang on, more than half way done. You're doing great, Mr. Nichols, just do exactly what you're doing, a little more is all, we're almost through... There!" The hardness leaves me. She takes something to one of those trash cans with a pedal to open the lid before I can turn my head.

"Now what?" I demand, reaching almost angrily for the sheet to cover my four-dollar-ticket ass.

She neatens it like she can't tell I'm a little pissed. "Now you let it work for ten minutes, then we see if it does the trick."

"What trick is that?" I glance at the wall clock.

"The trick is getting something back in addition to the mineral oil. Some patients have trouble retaining it, so don't be afraid to let me know if you're experiencing some oozing."

I wasn't worried about it before, but now that she's planted the idea, it grows. My rectum feels too full, like I've got to go right now. But I can't. The feeling overrides my annoyance.

Not the first time I've made myself wait a while. Making movies costs so much per hour that a simple trip to the bathroom when they want you on the set can eat up thousands. The urge passes if you ignore it, and the director likes you a lot better, too.

This urge isn't nearly so patient, and I'm getting pretty uncomfortable holding the stuff inside while the minutes drag past. Come on, clock, I've got to go!

"Uh-oh, a little trouble retaining your oil? Don't worry about the sheet."

Oh, god, some must have slipped out! "I'm sorry," I mutter. Can you die of shame? I try to memorize how I feel, so I can use it in some future role. It helps me take a mental step back from the reality of an oil leak

"Really, it's nothing. Why don't you go expel the rest, and I'll change the sheet and pull down fresh paper."

I'm off the table like a shot.

"Don't flush!" she orders.

I feel better once the oil's out, although it's hard to clean off every trace. I look in the toilet. Nothing but the oil, slightly tinted, floating on the water. And my stomach's hurting. I reach for the handle before I remember her instruction and pull my hand back.

I wash my hands, wrap my gown so nothing shows, and return to the table with its new paper.

She takes a peek in the bathroom and flushes the oil away. "No luck? Too bad, but we'll see what Doctor says." She goes to the intercom. "Doctor, it's Nurse O'Keefe. No returns on Mr. Nichols."

"Two hundred and fifty milliliters hypertonic solution," he says brusquely. "Let me know."

Nurse Allison O'Keefe turns back to me, "Sorry" on her face.

I'm sure mine falls. "Another take? Man... Is two hundred and fifty a lot?" I ask.

"Around eight ounces. Lie on your side?" she says hopefully, like I might refuse. "These are all set to go, the same thing you could buy for yourself at any drugstore except we get them by the case." She lifts one cheek. "Hold still..."

Painless piercing, and liquid cooler than I am, then the tip leaves me. Embarrassing, but not too awful. Brief, at least. I can't wait for this stuff to fix me up so I can get out of here and back to work.

"And again," she says.

It's over just as fast, but within a couple of minutes the pressure's a lot worse. "I'm not sure I--jesus!" My body wants the stuff out.

"No you don't!" Allison says sharply, and reaches toward a steel tray. I hear paper rip, then she's pressing something right on my clenching anus.

I fight the need to let go, fight it so hard I'm swallowing little grunting sounds and about melting from the humiliation. Finally the compulsion to push backs off. "Ah, thanks," I say to the wall.

"Happens all the time," she says. "It might mean it's working. Let me know when the next cramp comes. I've got plenty of gauze squares."

It isn't long. Four times it happens, Allison keeping my sphincter from flexing out and me clamping down for all I'm worth. In between she tells little stories about earlier nursing jobs. The time she wore colored panties under white uniform trousers and Dr. Hewlett sent her home to change--after pinching her bottom. Young Dr. Vernon, who thought he was communicating at the patients' level when he used words like 'butt' and 'poop,' which offended all the older women. Dr. Ghosh from Calcutta urged staff and patients alike to take yogic enemas. "Not that it wouldn't have done some of them some good," she adds with a little laugh, then sobers. "This is going to do you some good, you'll see."

"God, I hope so. I'd hate to think I--oh, man, here it comes again--"

Finally the time's up. "Let me guess," Nurse Allison says with a wink. "You feel the urge to go?"

We both laugh.

When I come out of the bathroom, I'm grinning in spite of myself. "Many happy returns," I tell her.

"You can flush. I'll tell Doctor," is all she says, leaving me alone in the room.

They come back together, talking softly in serious voices. Nurse Allison wheels one of those stand-things.

"I'm probably fine now, I mean that last part, the tonic-stuff, it worked--" I interrupt myself. "I mean, is that what I think it is?" I ask her.

Dr. Reuben answers. "Do you think it's an irrigation can containing three quarts of a mild soap solution?"

God, Nichols, try to behave like a man instead of some kid who's scared what they're going to do to his poor little bottom. "Can you explain why this is necessary, doctor?"

"Certainly. Mr. Nichols, I'm happy to say my diagnosis is simple constipation."

"I wasn't constipated," I protest. "I had diarrhea--"

"The bolus of fecal material high in your rectum indicates you've been many days without a bowel movement. It also suggests you ignored the urge to defecate multiple times while your colon absorbed liquid as it's designed to, until you'd created what amounts to a partial obstruction of putty-like feces you couldn't pass even if you tried. Fortunately it yielded somewhat to Nurse Frederick's treatment."

"Yeah, so I don't need--"

He rolls right over my objection. "You report inadequate fiber in your daily diet, lack of exercise, and irregular meals, all of which contribute to constipation. The runny stools are what backed up behind the bolus until the pressure--there's your stomach ache--worked them past the blockage as diarrhea."

"Okay, so I'm unplugged for now. I'll be better about all that. Eat fruit and stuff. Work out." How would I find the time?

"I hope you will, but to ensure the entire bolus is removed, you need this treatment. Otherwise, I'll see you back here in a day or two."

And lose another half-day filming while gaining Lamar's anger. How many times can you expect him to be gracious about this?

Once. I hope.

"Okay," I sigh. "Do whatever needs to be done to end it."

"A large enema will end it--for now. To end it permanently, you'll need to eat properly--Nurse O'Keefe will give you a pamphlet--and exercise, a half hour five times a week, nothing strenuous, although that's certainly fine, too. A walk will do. And when you have to go, go."

"Yes, doctor," I say meekly.

"Good. Knee-chest position again, please." He reaches for fresh gloves.

I take my sheet and keep my butt covered, although part of me knows it's silly, since they've both seen it. Stuck things in it. I remember to drop my back and spread my knees.

Doctor Reuben moves the cloth, daubs gel on my pucker, and slides two fingers in me, right up to the web. Wincing, I turn my face, only to see Nurse Allison's smiling approval. So I squint my eyes shut, not against actual pain but against the mild discomfort and worse humiliation.

"Take a deep breath and bear down, as if you were moving your bowels."

God, in front of somebody? "I don't think I can."

"Mr. Nichols, it's a perfectly normal body function. Believe me, nothing that happens as you bear down could possibly be a new experience, from my perspective."

Nurse O'Keefe says, "Patients pass gas, feces, enema solution, rectal mucous..."

"And once a zucchini," Dr. Reuben adds. "A deep breath and bear down. My garden should do so well. It was really quite large."

I do it, not as hard as I could because I'm laughing.

The fingers probe. "Keep pushing, Mr. Nichols. The fecal mass is smaller, and when you bear down it's in reach for fragmentation."

Good lord, he's breaking off chunks of, what did he call it? 'Putty-like feces.' While it's in my ass!

"Push, not as hard as you were. Yes, like that." The fingers twist in my body, stretching my sphincter, moving my insides uncomfortably. "Uh-huh... Yes, that's good, let me... uh-huh, keep pressing... There, that should help quite a bit." There's a sudden foul smell in the room as he pulls his hand out, but Nurse O'Keefe strips off his gloves and drops them in the pedal-controlled wastebasket. The odor fades quickly.

"Hold that position. Nurse O'Keefe will give you your treatment. I have patients waiting, but I'll stop in before you leave, Mr. Nichols."

"He's a very popular doctor," she says when he's gone.

"Yeah, who doesn't love a guy's hand up their butt?"

She shakes her head. "If you're comfortable, stay right where you are and I'll insert the colon tube seven or eight inches."

It's just soft rubber and goes in pretty easy after the way those fingers stretched me. Over my shoulder I watch her connect it to the irrigation tube, which is maybe three feet long and easily an inch thick. I dread how fast the soap solution is going to pour into my upturned butt.

Nurse Allison says, "Now just relax everything."

I hear a soft click and warmth floods my rectum. The water's really gushing, but only for a moment before she does something that slows it. I expected it to be awful, but it doesn't hurt or anything, just feels weird. Really weird.

I remember having terrible trouble with a mere eight ounces and wonder how the hell I'm supposed to manage three quarts. A quick look at the marked container indicates the level of the solution has already dropped more than sixteen ounces. A pint, and I'm doing all right. I busy my mind with figuring how many ounces in three quarts, but before I get the answer my anus contracts in an involuntary spasm that distracts me so much I have to start over.

"That's normal," Nurse Allison says, as open as if she was talking about blisters from the shoes Wardrobe sent being a half-size too small. "You'll be feeling some pressure soon, if you aren't already."

I am, not too bad. "Some."

"You're doing fine, Mr. Nichols. I'm going to massage your abdomen a little, to help minimize any cramping. Don't tighten up those muscles."

She reaches underneath, where my abs are practically hanging like an old dog's. Her warm hand knows where to press its circles, because I actually hear a digestive gurgle as the pressure disappears. The soapy water works its way deeper.

"Better? You've taken nearly half, you know."

"Good."

Suddenly the pressure gets a lot worse. I'm not sure I can hold it in! "Nurse? It's--"

"Cramping?" Before I say yes, she's stopped the water with one hand while the other goes for my stomach. Only this time it bumps something.

My face flames. I had no idea! How the hell could I be hard?

"That's normal, too, Mr. Nichols. The pressure, the moving water vibrating your prostate..."

Thank god she ignores it, feeling my belly until she figures out where the kink is and working the area. The pressure eases, not a lot. "I'm getting pretty full," I tell her.

"Doctor wants you to have three quarts. If you can't take it all the first time, you can expel and we'll start over."

"With what's left, you mean," I assure myself.

"With a new three quarts. The first one's always the hardest to take, but some patients need a whole series of enemas to work up to the size Doctor orders."

What? I refuse to be one of them. I detest this on every level. The indignity of this position, the casual invasion of my private places, the pressure knotting my gut worse than the ache that brought me here, the humiliation of an undesired erection. I'm taking it all, one shot, and that's it!

"Ready for more?"

She doesn't let me answer, but I don't complain because while one hand continues to gently mash my expanding belly, the other circles my cock, working it with slow skill nearly as well as I do it myself.

It's hard to explain, but the tube up my rectum, the rising pressure there, the heat emanating from my overstuffed gut, my complete exposure, all of it somehow complements the hand job. I find myself mouth-breathing, fast and shallow, and very turned on. My hips rock, fucking her willing hand. I don't miss the one that leaves my stomach, and when I hear the little click and feel the water coming faster, I almost welcome it.

My little almost-noises are as much from arousal as the enema, and it's only in the 'Gonna-cum!' pause before I shoot that I worry about losing control when it happens. Too late, of course.

My entire saddle area spasms with the strength of the orgasm, including my anus. I feel wet course down my upright thighs in tiny gushes in the rhythm of the ejaculations. As soon as it's over I'm hugely embarrassed. And incredibly, achingly full.

Ignoring the white gobs spattering the paper, Allison mops my legs and around my knees like it was nothing.

"Good!" she says.

Yeah, terrific. I got excited from a freakin' enema, squirted water out my ass when I came, and now I'm kneeling on the paper wet with stuff I don't want to look at or even think about, although I can't avoid smelling it.

"Really, Mr. Nichols, very good!"

Honey, I think sarcastically, they're all good. Even the ones into a stranger's palm while hot water fills your ass.

"All three quarts. I think redirecting the patient's attention is the way to go, don't you?"

I took it all? It's over? "Ah, yeah. And thank you. But my attention's back where it started and I need the bathroom now!"

"Oh, not yet. Doctor wants you to retain it, like you did before."

"That was eight ounces!" And this is, what, ninety-six? She pulls out the tube, blotting a few fresh drops from my legs.

The cramp is vicious and sudden, but Allison must have been expecting it, because she's got a fresh gauze pad pushed against me, hard. My anus tries to open underneath it. Leaving the pad in place, she grabs a buttock in each hand and squeezes them together harder than I could ever do it myself.

It's enough until the cramp passes. "Thanks," I say sincerely. "That was pretty bad."

"It means the soap stimulated peristalsis--the intestine propelling its contents to the rectum?"

"That's good, I guess."

"You might not think so if the cramps keep up. As constipated as Doctor said you were, that's what we can expect."

The gauze and pressed cheeks bit works several times, then it doesn't. Some water cascades out of my anus, just for a second, then drips from my compressed crack onto my legs and balls. "Oh, god," I moan, "that's disgusting, I'm sorry, it's all disgusting, I'm so sorry..."

"Hush," she coos. "Let me know when it ends. I've got something else we can use."

In thirty seconds or so it's over. She cleans me up again, ignoring my blushes and the way my ass trembles with the effort of containing the enema even when I don't have a cramp.

"Here, let's get this in place before the next one," she says from behind me.

"What?"

"A rectal dilator. They use them for people who've had strictures, or surgery, to stretch the anus back to the size it needs to be."

I look back at it. Glistening with lubricant, the plastic rod is short and fat, obscenely wide at the base. I swallow at the thought of it going into me. "Who needs it to be that big?"

Allison grins. "Movie stars who can't hold their enemas."

"Good thing I'm more an actor than a movie star, huh?" I say.

She touches it to my anus, which is terrified of what will happen if it opens to let anything in. I guess it's just my head that's chanting, No way! I'm straight, no way--

"No, don't." I clear my throat. "Really, I don't want it. Or need it."

A cramp makes me a liar. I scrunch up my ass, my whole being, whatever it takes to contain my watery burden, but I feel something escape in a definite squirt. I'm so embarrassed that part of me would like to cry.

"I think you do," she says, "but it's your decision."

My anus makes the choice, overriding the brain. I feel my sphincter start to let go despite my desperate attempt to grip tighter. "Do it!" I gasp. "Hurry!"

Suddenly the thick dilator is in. She squeezes my butt closed over it, and even though the ring of muscle quits outright, nothing leaks.

But something happens. Even though it's only been a few minutes, my cock revives like I was fourteen. The cramp eases and Allison's on the job, releasing my ass and working my rod with both hands.

"Oh god, oh god..." I mutter.

When the next cramp strikes, I gasp my order. "Don't stop! Whatever you do, don't stop!" I grip the dilator tight with my ass, the water working in heavy swells that don't hold a candle to what Allison's doing.

I guess I can say I came, but with almost no cum it's a judgment call. I just know the feeling was uncommonly strong and that I didn't lose a drop from my butt.

"We went a little over the time," Allison says, "so you can use the bathroom now. Put on a glove before you remove the dilator." She hands me one.

There's no time. The thing shoots like a torpedo into the toilet before I'm even sitting. The relief from the dreadful pressure is sort of like coming, too. I put on the glove and fish out the plastic, glad that it floats, and I'm rinsing it when a second wave comes. I sit fast, feeling my rectum practically turning itself inside-out in its eagerness to empty. My eyes tear, and they keep doing that with every spurt, so that I'm sniffling and wiping my cheeks and jawline like a sobbing kid while I wait.

The switch for the bathroom fan is in reach, and I flick it on, marveling at how much stuff was in me. I grin wryly: I really was full of crap, just like my last leading lady insisted when she dumped me. I clean myself off and flush, then wash my hands and the dilator with really hot water and lots of soap. I'm splashing my face with cold when I suddenly have to go again. I barely make it to the toilet.

Just then Allison knocks and walks right in. "Lean back, let me massage you." More water and waste, and more, and more. My ex knew her stuff, I think, but a painfully lumpy gush wipes the smile off my damp face. My eyes water, and Allison dabs them. "It's okay, really, I know, I know..."

It takes a half hour before I feel empty. And for the first time in days, perfectly fine.

Allison's put down fresh paper and a different sheet, which I ignore as I stick my ass high in the air for the doctor's last examination.

"Good, keep the muscles relaxed..." he drones.

The gel feels different on my slack anus than it did when I was sick, scared, embarrassed, and tight. He examines with two fingers, then three, and I bear down as ordered. He puts some small instrument up me without difficulty, and twirls it around, and the only discomfort is that it wasn't warmed quite enough. It withdraws, and Allison wipes me with something moist and warm, then something dry.

"Excellent. You can sit up, Mr. Nichols. I'm glad to say your successful treatment gets you a fresh start. With proper diet and activity, I shouldn't be seeing you again, except at the movies."

"No offense, but I hope I never see you again."

He laughs. "None taken. You may have trouble in the first few weeks, while you're retraining your bowel to function normally," Dr. Reuben says.

"Like what?"

"Constipation. You'll want to consider an enema any time you haven't defecated for forty-eight hours. If it's been seventy-two hours, it's absolutely necessary."

"Right. Nurse O'Keefe said you can buy those little ones at any drugstore." In some kind of disguise, maybe. I've sent movies' gofers for drugstore stuff, including rubbers, but this is on the other side of the line. I don't want anybody to know about this.

"I recommend a full saline enema, at least two quarts. The city has an excellent clinic specializing in colon therapy which can administer--"

"I can't go to some clinic and ask for an enema!" I sputter. "If the press finds out, they'll-"

"Doctor?" says Allison, and gestures him to a short whispered discussion in the corner.

He comes back and says, "I'd been about to suggest you receive any enemas you need here, but Nurse O'Keefe pointed out that you're unavailable during office hours, today being an exception because you weren't feeling well."

"That's right." Fresh guilt. "I'm costing them a fortune, being away from the set."

"Nurse O'Keefe has offered to administer enemas as needed, in the evening at your hotel, with equipment and supplies borrowed from the office."

She has? I look at her, feeling my wilted cock stir.

"I suggested she charge the going rate for private duty nurses, with the usual two-hour minimum for a home visit, and a bonus for night work."

"A big bonus," I agree. "This is way above and beyond the call of duty, and I'm god damned--excuse me--extremely lucky to find a professional who's willing to make herself available to suit my schedule. Frankly, I'd have to be close to death before I'd take more time off for enemas, and I'll die before I'll go to the clinic. Even if I never need her to give me, ah, treatment, I appreciate the offer more than you know."

Allison knows, of course, and smiles. "I'll be discrete. No uniform, and I'll carry the things in an overnight bag."

"You're very thoughtful," I say, and smile back for all I'm worth. "Thank you."

"Please stop at the window on your way out, Mr. Nichols. They'll want insurance and billing information. Nurse O'Keefe, could you help me in Treatment Two?"

"Thank you again, Nurse O'Keefe," I say formally. "Dr. Reuben."

Of course I want to stay well, to eat right and exercise and all that, to feel great while I finish Lamar's movie. Nobody wants to be sick, even with something as minor as constipation.

But I think a couple times a week I'll call Dr. Reuben's office and lie about it. Whoever I talk to will believe me. Lamar says I'm actually a pretty good actor.

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