A few days ago, when it was so quiet on the list, I suggested a few ideas. Then, Brad sent me an email asking if I’d ever had my temp taken rectally. Of course! How could I forget?
Between the ages of 14 and 18, I visited an “aunt” for a week every summer and, occasionally, for a few days over spring vacation. She lived in a huge house on the shore of Lake Erie and she owned the stretch of nearly-pristine beach the house backed up to. Each visit was a grand treat for me.
“Aunt” Betts was one of the very nicest people my family knew. She had been an old friend of my mom’s since before my parents met. She wasn’t married, but had a partner named “Johnny.” That was short for Genevieve. Betts was an RN with the softest, kindest voice my mom (and I, too, for that matter) ever knew. She was medium height, well proportioned, and pretty. Johnny was a big woman, also well proportioned, who was an executive with the YWCA. Actually – and I didn’t figure it out until I was quite a bit older – Johnny was butch. No matter, these ladies were first rate friends. There were a
few things I would discuss with them that I wouldn’t talk about with my mother, at least not at first. For example, when I wanted to go on the Pill, I was afraid Mom wouldn’t understand, so I talked about it with them and asked how I might best approach my mother on so sensitive an issue. Actually, I could and often did, talk about anything with these fine ladies.
I must say, in tribute to my mom, she was well aware of their sexual orientation, and didn’t mind a bit that their daughter was their guest. I didn’t either. Contrary to what the Religious Right would have the world know, Betts and Johnny did not influence my sexual orientation. They did, however, positively influence my acceptance of people whose choices differ from mine.
In the summer of what I recall as my 15th year, I took the Greyhound to their little town that was about two hours from my home. I arrived with a cold and, by the third day, I was so stuffed up I couldn’t breathe through my nose and I had a fever. Betts wanted to take my temperature, but since my cold had rendered me a mouth breather, she asked if she could take it rectally.
“That’s fine,” I recall my saying. “It’s easier than an enema nozzle.” I’d never had my temp taken that way.
“Well, I’m probably gonna want to give you an enema, too,” she said. That was fine by me, too.
She had me take off my jeans and panties and lie face down on the bed. She sat next to me and, with one hand, spread my cheeks while, with the other, she inserted the thermometer. I recall I became very excited as I felt her hand between my buttocks as she held the nozzle in.
The temp was up, and Betts suggested an enema would probably bring it down. She told me she’d set it up and I could give it to myself, if I wanted. Certainly not. I’ll always allow someone to give me an enema if they’re willing. I told her I’d appreciate her giving it. She asked me when my bowels had last moved. It had been three days earlier before I left home.
Since Betts has always been the soul of courtesy, she called my mother and asked her what she thought, Mom was in total agreement that an enema was the way to go, and she asked Betts to give it.
We did the enema in the bathroom. I sat on a stool and watched in great excitement as Betts prepared the enema in an old black folding syringe with a wide open top. She put in a packet of castile enema soap she’d brought home from the hospital. Actually, she had dozens of the little packets. Every time someone got a tap water enema, the packet that came with the kit was surplus and Betts used them at home even for shampoo.
She hung the bag from the shower curtain rod using a length of clothes line with big S hooks on either end and had me get down on all fours next to the tub. She’d placed a rubber sheet on the floor and put a folded towel down for my knees. Then she instructed me to get my shoulders down so the enema would flow down and easily into my bowel. She used a vaginal nozzle (just as my mother did) which she had soaking in a pan of hot water and stuck it in a jar of Vaseline. She got down
in her knees next to me. Her spreading my cheeks, just as she had with the thermometer, was delightfully exciting. When she, carefully, inserted the warm nozzle into my rectum, it occurred to me, I was very wet. Something else that intrigued me was the feel and smell of the rubber sheet. It was absolutely sexy!
Another thing that I found exciting was the old enema bag leaked and little rivulets would run over my buttocks and down the insides of my legs. That felt so good. I took the entire bag, which had to be two quarts and then Betts gave me another treat as she squeezed my cheeks together to help me hold it. We tried to have me hold it for five minutes, but the urgency was too great and I had to got to the toilet after only a couple minutes.
“Sometimes,” Betts suggested, wringing out a cold washcloth, “a patient will feel dizzy from an enema.” She placed it on my forehead and insisted I not hold back. Okay, I decided, and I began to empty out. The constipation had been bad enough that, at first, the enema was hard to pass. Betts massaged my tummy as I had the world’s worst cramps.
Another “first” with that enema: as my gut ground into one of the hardest cramps I even had, I had orgasm! My young VG writhed in an earth-rending climax that, up to that time, I wasn’t aware I was capable of. It must have been obvious. When it was finally over and I returned to reality, Betts said, “That’s good. I’ll bet you feel a lot better.”
“You knew?”
“Of course. It’s unmistakable.”
After that, Betts gave me an enema every day I was there.
At age 18, I went on to college, married my first husband, and moved away from that area. Betts contracted cancer and died when I was 25. I missed her and still do. One has very few good friends over a lifetime.
Part II
We did the enema in the bathroom. I sat on a stool and watched in great excitement as Betts prepared the enema in an old black folding syringe with a wide open top. She put in a packet of castile enema soap she’d brought home from the hospital. Actually, she had dozens of the little packets. Every time someone got a tap water enema, the packet that came with the kit was surplus and Betts used them at home even for shampoo.
She hung the bag from the shower curtain rod using a length of clothes line with big S hooks on either end and had me get down on all fours next to the tub. She’d placed a rubber sheet on the floor and put a folded towel down for my knees. Then she instructed me to get my shoulders down so the enema would flow down and easily into my bowel. She used a vaginal nozzle (just as my mother did) which she had soaking in a pan of hot water and stuck it in a jar of Vaseline. She got down in her knees next to me. Her spreading my cheeks, just as she had with the thermometer, was delightfully exciting. When she, carefully, inserted the warm nozzle into my rectum, it occurred to me, I was very wet. Something else that intrigued me was the feel and smell of the rubber sheet. It was absolutely sexy!
Another thing that I found exciting was the old enema bag leaked and little rivulets would run over my buttocks and down the insides of my legs. That felt so good. I took the entire bag, which had to be two quarts and then Betts gave me another treat as she squeezed my cheeks together to help me hold it. We tried to have me hold it for five minutes, but the urgency was too great and I had to got to the toilet after only a couple minutes.
“Sometimes,” Betts suggested, wringing out a cold washcloth, “a patient will feel dizzy from an enema.” She placed it on my forehead and insisted I not hold back. Okay, I decided, and I began to empty out. The constipation had been bad enough that, at first, the enema was hard to pass. Betts massaged my tummy as I had the world’s worst cramps.
Another “first” with that enema: as my gut ground into one of the hardest cramps I even had, I had orgasm! While it sure wasn’t my first
orgasm, it was the first under these circumstances. My young VG writhed in an earth-rending climax that, up to that time, I wasn’t aware I was capable of. It must have been obvious. When it was finally over and I returned to reality, Betts said, “That’s good. I’ll bet you feel a lot better.”
“You knew?”
“Of course. It’s unmistakable.”
After that, Betts gave me an enema every day I was there.
At age 18, I went on to college, married my first husband, and moved away from that area. Betts contracted cancer and died when I was 25. I missed her and still do. One has very few good friends over a lifetime.