An Enematic Autobiography.

It is difficult to retrace how exactly I came to be an enema enthusiast. Searching my memory, I can recall signs of a preoccupation with enemas that goes all the way back to my early childhood -- an obsession that was, wittingly or unwittingly, fostered by my parents, but which remained fairly dormant until I was old enough to take things into my own hands. Now, at an age well over fifty, enemas take up quite a bit of my thought and imagination. I definitely "enjoy" them, yet one might say I am more motivated by compulsion than by pleasure. Whenever I am alone at home, I like to go to the bathroom and give myself a nice, warm, enema. I may try to rationalize the need as a way of dealing with constipation or gas, but deep down I know that health or hygiene have very little to do with it; and while during adolescence, my self-administered enemas used to take on a sexual connotation, now that I enjoy a satisfying adult sex life, the operation has taken on a value of its own, but lost none of its compulsiveness. I would like to share the experience with others ­ hence this story ­ but the sharing is likely to remain virtual. Being a faithful husband with a non-enematic wife (more about which later), I have never experimented with enemates; but yes, I do fantasize about them.

It would be bold to claim that clysmophilia is a genetic or otherwise hereditary disposition. I don't know whether nature or culture are to be blamed, but the condition seems to have reigned in our family -- while in other families, the enema seems to be an altogether foreign concept, or one confined to the hospital register. I remember that my grandma demanded occasional two-litre soap enemas when she lived with us, a habit discussed with mild irritation by my parents, who yet used to give enemas to each other and to themselves; the funny thing being that these sessions were surrounded by a kind of taboo, albeit not by total secrecy. Once Dad gave Mom an enema in our presence, when we were very small. We laughed at seeing her bare buttocks. She cried. Usually, my sister and I would be told to go and play outside, or to stay out of the bathroom for a while, but the equipment (enema or douche) would be left to dry in the bathroom for all to see. A small kid, I was impressed by the size of Mom's douche nozzle. When I asked Mom about it, she answered that that was for "when Mama has a tummy-ache". In my uncles' and aunts' families, the enema tank or bulb would also be visibly displayed in the bathroom or on a shelf in the loo. As I grew up, oblique references to enemas would become more frequent; not only as a panacaea for slow bowel movement , but also when performing "suggestive" actions like, say, filling a water bag, pumping air into a camping mattress, or squirting wine out of a Spanish wineskin. My parents believed I hated enemas (at the time, I did) and would hold up the threat of cleaning out my bowels as some kind of punishment if I ate too much, did not poop regularly, made smelly farts, when I ran a fever, or if I could not empty my bowel before receiving a suppository. They also threatened to give me milk rectally if I didn't drink enough of it, which I didn't, but that at least is a threat they never carried out, even though they kept a large plunger syringe ready for the purpose. Water and Marseilles soap was all I ever got, but I got plenty of it. The clean smell of Marseilles soap still conjures up memories of those childhood enemas. Most of the time I was given enemas without being asked, when my parents decided "for my own good".

My oldest enematic memory is of being pinned to the kitchen floor on a towel by Mom, next to an enamelled basin full of soapy water, while Dad spread my cheeks and poked the red pear-shaped bulb into my tiny youthful derrière. I must have been three or four. I remember crying bloody murder and thrashing about with my legs, but again, the experience cannot have been totally unpleasant, because I remember drawing a bulb syringe on a small piece of paper, crumpling it into a tiny ball, and, in the secrecy of my room, trying (rather unsuccessfully) to force it into my anus. I liked suppositories too, which Mom would insert far into my rectum with her thumb. Up to the present day, when I see a big Mamma (often Italian or African) with large, stubby fingers and a broad thumb, I start wondering what it would feel like to have it stuck up my bottom. And ever since Last Tango in Paris, when I see a girl with long fingernails, but the nail cut short on her thumb or forefinger, I wonder whether that is to give their boyfriends that special kind of pleasure.

Another distant memory is of Mom undressing my sister and me, laying us down on Grandma's couch, taking our rectal temperature, and giving us an enema each. I remember enjoying seeing my sister getting it. She must have felt the same about me.

The next stage, still at pre-school age I believe, is filled with stranger memories. I remember being given an enema, no longer with the red bulb, but with the "adult" equipment, that is, the tank and rubber hose, during a visit by Uncle Henry. Dad decided to give me an enema with Uncle Henry watching, laying me down on the carpet in front of the dining-room stove and using the mouthpiece of a cigar holder instead of the rectal tip. The memory still puzzles me : why should anyone want to administer an enema to his own kid in front of their visitors ? The only answer I can think of is that Dad and Uncle Henry - who was not a real uncle, but a childhood friend of his - must have enjoyed enemas together, or perhaps given each other enemas, while playing at the same-sex equivalent of doctors and nurses. But that is sheer speculation; and it is too late to ask either of them ­ and when they were still around I didn't dare to ask.

Yet this is not the only time I was to receive an enema in front of spectators. At one time, I must have been four or five then, the doctor came - strangely enough, accompanied by his little boy in a school cap - and must have prescribed me a soap enema, which was prepared and administered there and then, on a blanket spread on top of the dining-room table, with the doctor and the kid watching. I don't know whether I was prescribed one enema or a series (I have heard reports about people being prescribed daily enemas in the olden days. It must have played havoc with their intestinal flora), but what I know is that for a dozen or so successive days I was given a soap enema every evening before going to bed; and that when I was "good", that is, let it all in without struggling or complaining, I would be rewarded. I needed a new pair of shoes -- I had damaged my only pair by kicking a wall -- and after every enema, I would be given a quarter until there was enough money in the kitty for a new pair. I remember that eventually, I would get out the blanket myself, spread it on the table and lay down on it in Sim's position while my parents prepared the soapy mixture, and how I was abundantly congratulated for being such a cooperative "big boy". Which sets me wondering : were those enemas some kind of punishment for ruining my shoes; was the money some kind of blackmail for me to submit more willingly to a necessary medical treatment; was the quarter a reward for being the family's enemate, or was the daily enema event a complex configuration of all three ?  Of course the Freudian implications of pleasure-for-punishment, undress-before-strangers and shit-for-money are interesting, and if my strange relationship with the enema is rooted in some kind of childhood trauma, this treatment must have contributed considerably to it. But then again, that seems to be the kind of trauma I can comfortably live with ­ if it hurts nobody, keeps me clean inside, and gives me pleasure, there seems to be nothing immoral or disturbing about it.

The next enema I remember was one I needed. I had been sick and kept at home for a day or so, apparently with a serving of melon I failed to digest, and in the evening my parents decided to flush my system clean of any noxious substance. They got what they called the "fire hose" out of the bathroom, placed me face down in the Morris chair, and gave me my first "large" enema. The relief was instantaneous and spectacular, and up to the present day I remember how good I felt after it. I came out of the bathroom naked, smiling and dancing, announcing that I had recovered from my illness. A nice big enema when you really need one can give a strong feeling of relief, of joy even. I have been lucky enough to have quite a few of those; and perhaps it is also this intense feeling of bliss and freedom that I try to re-create whenever I decide to give myself a good cleaning out.

But not all enemas were motivated by need. One day, Dad proved uncommonly insistent. At a family party, I had taken several servings of strawberries with whip cream, and Dad kept arguing I would be sick the next day if I did not have an enema as soon as we got home. All the way back, during the one-hour drive, he kept pleading with me, almost begging to let him give me an enema -- even a small one; but as I didn't need one, I kept turning down the offer. Of course, the idea of a pre-emptive enema was ridiculous (an enema neither empties the stomach nor cleanses the liver) and once again I wonder what may have been the motive for Dad's insistence. There must have been, in the back of his mind, some sort of idea that when one enjoys food (the capital sin of gluttony ?) one must pay or atone for it with the discomfort and embarrassment of an enema -- a medicalised form of spanking. Or then, the idea must have turned him on, and he was looking for a good excuse.

Mom liked to give me enemas, too. Rare were the times when I was sick in bed with the flu or laryngitis, and she did not at one time or other propose to "give me a little enema" or walk into the room with the tank and tube all full and ready. After all, the coughing syrup could slow down bowel movement, and the suppositories required an empty bowel, didn't they ? So, said Mom with her enemas-build-character frown, pull down your pants, darling, turn over, and let's wash out your poo-poo. Attaboy. Retrospectively, I now feel I should have accepted and enjoyed those offers - if they didn't help, they didn't hurt ; but that was not the name of the game at the time : I am not sure I did not resent or fear the perspective of being penetrated and having a litre of soapy water forced up my asshole, and I certainly protested at any suggestion I should get another enema; but I also remember I secretly kept hoping to be given one, large, warm and soapy, because I liked the feeling deep inside. It turned me on to have my temperature taken rectally, too. Do small boys have sensitive prostates ? This kind of love/hate relationship with enemas must have lasted throughout my school years. With time, the sick-bed enemas came to be replaced by laxative lemonade -- yuck -- but I keep feeling that the parents would rather have had massive recourse to the lavement, as they called it, to wash out of my bowels whatever caused the trouble. So would I. Eventually, I developed my own, clumsy, ways of dealing with the desire.

As I grew up and went to school, we moved into a larger, more comfortable house, and Mom started working. Which means that I had long, unsupervised afternoons where my parents thought I was studying or playing. Well, sometimes I was. But one of my favorite games was studying new ways of pouring or squirting water into my own asshole. I fumbled with funnels, soft plastic bottles, balloons and a number of other devices and twisted myself into all sorts of positions, until the day when I discovered that the bathroom tap delivered the necessary pressure to force water into my colon. I found a piece of garden hose that fit around the faucet, slipped it a few inches into my anus, and carefully let the water spurt in. It is during one of these enema sessions that I experienced my first orgasm, actually without touching myself -- and of course didn't know what happened to my willy. For some time, this enemasturbation became the secret way in which I was to seek and reach sexual pleasure. I discovered the art of manual excitement only much later; and would not infrequently combine genital and anal stimulation, or practise it with a tummy full of warm water.

The next step was to get the "real" thing; but that, of course, took a little more secret preparation. The opportunity came on Sundays, when my parents and sister would be off to worship in the morning, and I would attend the afternoon service. I would stay in my pajamas until after breakfast, sneak into the bathroom, undress, get the equipment - tank, tube and nozzle - out of the cabinet, have a nice, warm, soapy enema, sometimes two, and put everything back into place, bathe and get dressed before the family came back. In spite of a few close calls, I never got caught with my pants down - literally -, and if my parents ever noticed anything, they did not mention it. But once, when I came home, I found the tube dangling from a hook in the bathroom ­ and discovered that while I was away, they had been enjoying their Sunday enema, too !

Then I left for a year abroad as an exchange student. It did not take me long to discover that my foster family's bathroom cabinet contained a fountain syringe ­ one of those hot-water-bottle bags ­ tucked away underneath a pile of towels. One evening, when I was feeling very uncomfortable, I asked if I could "help myself". You should have seen their faces. Apparently, enemas were not part of their family tradition. They got me a bottle of milk of magnesia and that was it. And since I was hardly ever alone in the house, I could try out the bag only once. Tough luck. After a year of deprivation, I was glad to return home and resume my habit.

After a few years of this lonely treatment, I felt attracted to a new kind of pleasure - to have enemas administered to me, in addition to those I secretly gave myself. The only enemates at hand being my close family, I needed a good rationale. One day, when I felt all rotten inside after a beery hangover (a consequence of my first student days) I plucked up my courage and, with my heart beating wildly, asked my parents where the tank was (haha, as if I didn't know) and if they would give me an enema. They did not even act surprised, and got things ready at once as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Dad fixed me a plain warm-water enema and gave it to me on my own bed. Not the most successful one ever, but at least the barrier had been broken through, the threshold crossed: this day heralded a series of parent-administered enemas spread, with varying frequency and success, over four years or so. Only when I would ask for more than one enema per week would their response be something like "What, again ?"; but otherwise we reached the point where I only needed to hint that my intestinal transit was slow for them to get the equipment out of the bedside table where they kept it at the time.

One of these occasions rates among my best enematic memories. During the evening, I had signalled to my parents I was feeling clogged up (I really was, too) and that an enema would do me good. They had not responded immediately - they were watching a movie - and when the movie was over they went to bed; and so did I, feeling a little frustrated, but not wanting to beg for it either. After a while, however, Mom remembered and got up, and after a minute or so of rummaging about in the bathroom strode into my room with a warm, two-litre enema. She was in a hurry to go back to sleep, so she held the tank up as high as she could - the tube was about five feet long - and squirted the whole contents deep into my eager butt. Boy, did that do a lot of good. I retained the water for a few minutes, donned my bathrobe, and set off for the loo. I do not remember ever having had a more spectacular cleaning out. The water thundered out like a cascade, and when I thought I was empty, out came another load. And another. And so on for a quarter of an hour or so. I felt light, clean and strangely elated, and went to sleep relaxed and satisfied.

The relief was such that in the following weeks, I would skip classes once a week and come home early to give myself another cleaning out. At one of those sessions, I managed to break the nozzle (it dropped onto the tiled bathroom floor while I was evacuating) and had to confess, blushingly, to my parents what I had done -- invoking indigestion, of course, not pleasure. So now they knew I "helped myself"; but since this was a practice they also engaged in, it did not shock them beyond measure, and the next time they needed an enema themselves, they went out and bought two new nozzles -- not only the usual dual-purpose rectal-and-vaginal set, but also a 15-cm colonic probe in soft rubber, which couldn't break. Very thoughtful indeed.

When I got engaged to Cindy, I told her about my strange taste. She did not mind, but found it funny that a young adult man should still accept to be given enemas by his Mom. In her family, people did not use enemas, but the women douched. Cindy's Mom had taught her and her sisters intimate hygiene and bought them one nozzle each, and Cindy and her sisters were supposed to use it after each period. Most of the time they forgot. Cindy suggested that I do not turn what seemed to her a plain matter of personal cleanliness into an event or into a conversation topic - no more than brushing one's teeth or cleaning out one's ears. But from the outset, she ruled herself out as an enemate. She excels in giving me me all kinds of pleasures, but water sports are not her line. Within weeks of our wedding, since Cindy had not brought her bag into our household, I bought my own equipment; I used it with whatever frequency I liked, but kept my habit private - not secret. I did not lock the bathroom or whatever, and whenever Cindy would come in, she would say "oh" and go about her own business. She is like that, Cindy. She likes to de-dramatise things.

Only once did she give me an enema of sorts. I was called up into the army a month or so after our wedding, and had to endure two months of training camp, with married privates getting Wednesday and Sunday evening furloughs to fulfil their marital duties. You bet they did. But the evenings off also fulfilled a more practical purpose. The craphouse at the barracks was so disgusting that most soldiers took pills to avoid having to "go" during the day, and would use civilian toilets in town or at home in the evening. One Sunday, I felt miserable with constipation. At my wits' end, I tried the nurse's office, but he was on leave - which saved me the embarrassment of having to ask for an enema, but left me painfully sick. So I looked forward all Sunday for the moment when I could go home and give myself the necessary relief. But once at home, my young wife and I felt called to other pleasures, and spent the free evening frolicking in bed. Only moments before I had to run off to catch the train back to the barracks did I realize that my belly was still painfully clogged with waste. It was then that Cindy, still deliciously naked, accepted to give me a quick enema on the bathroom floor. But her role limited itself to holding up the tank, while the liquid slowly churned its way into the dark meanders of my colon. Quite clearly, she found the operation messy and totally unexciting, and balked at any suggestion of reciprocation. That was the end of that, and whenever I needed rectal relief or colonic comfort, I was left to my own devices.

When we became a family, I kept up the habit, but refrained from giving my children enemas or even discussing them. Not only did they not need any, but I also did not want to perpetuate the situation I found myself in. A decisive factor in this was that when my Dad became senile, a few months before his demise, he lost all sense of restraint and decency, and badgered everyone - his relatives, his friends, his visitors and even the pastor - with detailed, unsavoury accounts of his enematic performances. That caused me great embarrassment, and disgusted me from my own water sports for a while. But eventually the compulsion got the better of me, and I discreetly resumed my hydrotherapeutic activities, both at home and away. Going into a shop abroad to buy a syringe only added to the excitement. In the US and Canada enema/douche bags and other hot-water-bottle-like equipment are picked up at drugstores, while in Mediterranean countries bulb syringes (sometimes of impressive sizes) are sold over the counter at the chemist's provided one knows what to ask for. In Amsterdam they sell in sex shops, sometimes with kinky nozzles. The only place where I never managed to get hold of one was in Britain. Even Boots' doesn't run them. With great luck, the best I could get was a Fleet, but as we all know, a Fleet is hardly enough to clean out a chicken, let alone an adult's colon. Yet in Spain, they seem to be popular (judging by the number of used enema bottles in the trash containers of the campsites we went to). In Bucharest, there was a shop that sold nothing but syringes and similar rubber devices. But in that city, foreigners were under such close surveillance, if not by the police, at least by pushy money-changers, that I didn't dare go in. As soon as I got home, I declared that my system had been fouled up by the foreign food and jet-lag (it was, too, when I come to think of it) and relieved myself with a large enema even before I started unpacking my suitcase.

Eventually I wound up with an irritable colon, a nasty string of diverticules and a chronic propensity to colonic inflammation; the doctor blamed professional stress, chronic constipation and the western diet, but not regular use of enemas - even when I hinted at my habit; but after the operation, during which half a yard of colon was removed, he told me to take it easy for a while. What I did give up was high-speed, high-pressure large-volume enemas (sometimes straight from the tube, without the nozzle) but with a bit of patience, low-pressure enemas (with the tank hung no more than 3 ft above the patient) will do the job just as thoroughly, and give just as much pleasure, if not more, especially if the recipient relaxes flat on his back with knees raised, and uses a large douche nozzle. And the fun lasts longer.

Ever since the operation I have been entitled to an annual coloscopy and barium enema. The surprising thing is that while a few years ago, the preparation for a barium enema involved extensive flushing of the bowel (once at home and once at the clinic - the Dutch nurse at the hospital sure got a kick out of forcing three quarts into me in a minimum of time) nowadays enemas are no longer part of the fun. Even before my intestinal surgery, I was given bottles and bottlesful of a salty laxative mixture to drink, which made me sick, which was relatively inefficient, in that it took a whole day to work, and caused considerable discomfort (in the form of cramps, a dozen or so hurried dashes to the loo, and a lot of anal irritation) before my colon was empty - and reportedly not all that clean. Apparently, nowadays, while colonic irrigation seems to be "in" with part of the jet set and even with the late Lady Di, ordinary enemas are deemed to be aggressively invasive, and are increasingly disappearing from the medical and pharmaceutical scene. Even a plain rubber hose becomes difficult to get at the local chemist's, and will require a trip to a specialised medical supplies store. People don't seem to know what's good for them: why invest in expensive, ill-tasting, irritating and unpractical laxatives when an enema brings instant relief at almost no price - and even pleasure to those who can appreciate it ?

The latest development in my enematic pilgrimage has been the Internet. The first word I ever typed into a search engine was - of course - "enema"; and there, at last, I was to discover that I was not the only human to indulge in what I believed to be a weird habit. But the net offers a spate of different clysmatic experiences I would never dream of engaging in. Some sites associate enemas with punishment and spanking, others with sodomy or more or less kinky eroticism, others again with sado-masochism, or cruel, bossy relatives -- but also, at the other end of the spectrum, with loving and tender care, with relaxation, yoga, or with the plain pleasure of feeling clean inside. A lot of pseudo-medical theory, too, some of it dangerous if taken too literally. But once one has sorted out the chaff from the wheat, there is plenty to be enjoyed - including luscious brunettes and blondes with beautiful bottoms getting their fill of warm water from a variety of devices. I reckon that a virtual enema has never given anyone a clean colon (although thinking about enemas may enhance peristaltism and boost evacuation), but it does stimulate the imagination in a most welcome way. I like to imagine myself receiving an enema while making love. I would just love to be given an enema and oral sex at the same time. I like to sit on the subway and watch people, wondering whether they have had an enema recently (the answer is probably no, but then again, one never can tell); whether they would look any slimmer, cleaner and happier if they did have one (the answer being yes, of course), and what they would look like with a nozzle up their butt. But that - and this story - is the farthest (deepest ?) point at which I have ever involved other people in my fantasies.

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