To be clear, again remember we are talking about the mid ‘60’s in a fairly conservative, Polish household…………….complete with immigrant grandparents living just one floor below us. Despite the ‘changing times’, at that moment the 1960’s felt more like the 1950’s than the 1970’s. Suffice it to say, I was not alone in suffering these clinical indignities. I remember my mother even telling other women over the phone that she had to go soon because she needed to give me an enema………...right with me playing nearby to hear it!
When an impending enema is no secret to the world around you.
Now in my home, constipation sort of ran in the family……...probably due to our diet. My mother especially was a chronic sufferer throughout her life and would often use similar methods herself…….so it only made sense that if her little boy was having a difficult time pooping, she’d resort to the same techniques she knew worked for her.
Once constipation was detected by determining when the last time I pooed was, a routine of ever-more-drastic measures ensued, beginning innocently enough with …….prune juice! If that didn’t work then sometimes my Mom would give me some Feenamint gum (a laxative). And if after a while, that didn’t do the trick…….then I could expect either a suppository or enema.
Due to their convenience, suppositories were often the first choice. I vividly recall the procedure, so reminiscent of the rectal temperatures. I’d be lying face down on my bed and I’d hear the distinctive sound of the lid being unscrewed from the deep blue jar that was kept in a door compartment in the refrigerator. It had a certain deeper dull tone than the sound of a jelly or pickle jar being opened. Then she’d again use one hand to spread my cheeks while the other inserted the little stick of glycerin. It would feel cold going in, since it was fresh from the refrigerator, and the thing I remember most was how it was a two-step process. First my mother would have to hold the thing in her fingers and place the tip into my little orifice but then she’d have to use just her index finger to push it all the way in. The sphincter is a strong and wide ring, and if you don’t push the suppository in far enough, one squeeze will push it right back out. But if it gets past a certain point, that same squeeze will suck the intruder right up into you. Her finger push would make sure the latter occurred, and it’s that push I remember most: practical, gentle, but determined.
A modern and kind of cute and charming take on suppository use.
Now suppositories are essentially irritants designed to trick the rectum into wanting to expel it….and therefore whatever else was stuck there with it. But they take a little time…….time filled with the constant urge to ‘go’. And being a kid, that was probably the single biggest reason they often did not work for me. I just insisted on having to go almost immediately and my mother would eventually relent. I’d sit on the toilet and very happily expel the suppository with ease………..but very often ONLY the suppository. It would be at this point that my mother would bring out the big guns: the enema syringe and a sinkful of very warm, soapy water!
German's illustration has resonance, but........a witness? and erection? Not in my house. I was way too preoccupied with worry to feel any excitement.....and enemas were a private thing between just me and my Mom.
When I was still pretty young, my mother did this thing where she dragged out my old plastic-covered crib mattress from a storage area and put it on the bathroom floor alongside the tub. She’s then have me completely remove my pajama bottoms so there’d be nothing to pull up or down or get messed. Then she’d warm up the water and fill the porcelain sink with it as she slushed a bar of soap around creating a bunch of suds atop the cloudy water. Once satisfied, she’d sit on the closed lid of the toilet, and call me to her. Over her lap I’d go, very much like for a spanking, except rather than a smack, in would go a lubed-up nozzle.
This is close, but that guy is way too big and there was never any spanking connected to enemas.
I remember the odd feeling of the water going in. It felt……..weird, not painful, not pleasant, not completely unpleasant…….just a warm, gurgly tingle spreading through my lower abdomen. Once she felt I had enough liquid in me, she’d let me off her lap and I’d have to go to the mattress and wait. I recall that as I got older, I got tall quickly……..always being the tallest boy in my class, and way too lanky for her lap. So then I would just go to that old mattress and get into a knee-chest position and my mother would administer the enema that way.
Waiting for permission to go was the worst part I think. Every part of your body is screaming, “run to the toilet now!” But you know you have to wait for the damned thing to really do its job…….and it was my mother’s job to stand firm in the face of my weakness. When the time was up…….and in all honesty it was never that long, it just felt long…...I was free to plop on the toilet and go. And go I would. Enemas never failed to work.
Now, at the time, I hated getting an enema. But when I think back, I can’t come up with a single logical reason why. I think all of my objections were psychological. Physically they didn’t hurt. They always worked in just a few minutes. I’d ALWAYS feel better afterwards. And my mother’s routine, while admittedly embarrassing to a boy, was never cruel or excessive. And enemas were being used by other moms everywhere back then. I think it’s just like being young and not wanting to swallow the medicine we sort of know we need.
Anyway, it was only matter of time before I associated things going up my butt with something that felt good…….and seemed deliciously naughty. I remember we had this cheap glass apothecary bottle that my mother used for keeping bubble bath liquid. The top was the typical teardrop style you see on liquor decanters and it was not very big. When I hit puberty (early) I began to not only experiment with masturbation, but with inserting that tapered teardrop into my hinder……….. and sometimes I’d masturbate with that stopper in me!
Very close approximation of the very first item of substance to make its way into my bottom.
It wasn’t until much later though that I discovered during one of those moves I mentioned in a past post, my mother’s own enema bag. Now I personally never had experienced an enema from a bag and this discovery intrigued me. Before long, I was sneaking the bag into my own bathroom when I was alone and experimenting with enemas…….with a short hop in a couple of years more to involving kinky girlfriends and then wives in the proceedings.
This reminds me of an actual enema adventure I had many years ago, prior to Rosa, where I was given a full enema and then was allowed to kiss the Top's bottom for as long as I could hold it!
But it wasn’t just an association with anal insertions that began back then. It was something much more simple…….yet profound and long-lasting. All of these procedures, the rectal thermometers, the enemas, etc. all shared something much more basic. All of these things resulted in me somehow presenting a naked backside…….something you were supposed to always keep covered……………. to a trusted loved one.
I can easily say that this image sums up my earliest associations to anything kinky and sexual. Being face down and bare-bottomed became inextricably linked to something desirable in me.....regardless of what happened next.
And it was the unspoken association of the expectation of cooperation under the circumstances from the figure in authority that had the biggest impact. It was kind of like, ‘you are right. You ARE supposed to keep your bottom covered in almost every other situation…..BUT, in this situation, with me, the person who loves you and who is doing this for your own benefit, you need to present yourself to me and trust me to do what is necessary.’ Over time I think I came to associate that simple act of baring and presenting, especially while face down on a bed....... as a symbol of submissive trust.
There is something charming in the seemingly innocent vulnerability shown here.
And that association has stuck with me until even today, when I am no longer as lean, and youthful, in every situation from something medical…….to something more punitive, like a spanking.
When I was still pretty young, but already becoming sexual in my thinking, my earliest masturbatory fantasies centered around being just like the lad depicted here.
So much for the innocence of youth!