I was a 27 year old divorcee and the mother of a 3 year old. I was an LPN, working at the hospital during the day and going to school at night to become a Nurse Practitioner. My mother took care of my son most of the time and I hated it. I was his mother – I should be doing it. But there was no time. Some day, tho …
Bruce was a 40 year old corporate lawyer in the last throes of a messy divorce. Between his job and his soon-to-be-ex-wife, he was having major gastro problems and was in the hospital for tests. He had enough money to afford a private room. He was undergoing a complete GI series, among other things, and he wasn’t happy about it.
The day we met wasn’t a particularly good one for either of us, and it comes back vividly. I had been up most of the night with a sick child and had been studying for a test. Bruce had been poked and prodded so much that he was heartily sick of the whole mess. However, that day he was scheduled for a barium enema so he had to be good and clean, at least on the inside. I had the dubious pleasure of prepping him.
I rolled my cart, with the enema equipment on it, and a stand into the room, gave him my brightest smile and introduced myself. His response? “Get the hell out.”
My smile froze. “Something wrong?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” he said sarcastically. “Want to change places with me? You can lay here and let folks poke things down your throat and up your ass and then tell tell you ‘One more test and we’ll know what’s wrong.’ I’m sick of it. Just sick of the whole thing. Then they send this little bimbo in to cheer me up so I’ll submit to more tests? Do they think I’m stupid or something. I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake. I’m getting out of here.”
The bimbo closed the door and turned into a bitch. “Look, asshole. I don’t care if you’re a lawyer, the President or the King of Siam. I’m gonna explain a few things to you and you’re gonna sit there and listen.” I started advancing slowly to the bed, like a lion stalking its prey. “First, I’m not a bimbo. I’m a divorcee with a child to support and I’m trying to better myself by going to school at night. I’ve been up most of the night and I’m not in the best of moods, so don’t piss me off. Second, I’m not in here to cheer you up. I’m in here to prep you for your next exam. You keep talking to me the way you have been and I’ll really enjoy what I’ll be doing. You think you had it bad before with people poking you – just wait.” I was at the foot of the bed and starting turning the handle to make it flat. “Third, you’re going to cooperate with me in this procedure so the doctors can find out what’s wrong with you and get you the hell out of this hospital so I won’t have to deal with you again, or I’ll make you supremely sorry that you didn’t.” By this time I was standing next to him and I finished with, “Now turn over” as I pulled the covers back.
The man was completely cowed and staring at me in utter amazement. (He told me later that I was magnificent in my rage that morning and that he was having problems controlling his reaction to my “heaving breasts and blazing eyes.” Not bad for a lawyer, huh?) He meekly rolled onto his tummy.
“Now who let you keep those?” I asked, looking at the pin-striped boxers he was wearing. “No matter. They’ve got to go. Lift up.” I removed his boxers, careful not to catch “anything” in them. I walked to the cart and removed a themometer and some lubricant. I shook it down as I walked close to the bed.
“Uh, what are you doing?” He was watching me rather apprehensively.
“Your doctor wants before and after core body temperatures.”
“Huh?”
“I’m taking your rectal temperature.”
“WHAT?” he said as he started to come up off the bed.
Not thinking, I brought my hand down hard on one bare buttock. Not hard enough to really hurt, but I’m sure it stung. It certainly stung my hand. And it shocked Bruce enough to halt his efforts to escape, but he stayed up on his side. “I told you before, you are going to cooperate. Now, if you’re gonna act like a baby in this, I’ll just put you over my lap and hold you down, like I do my baby. Or I can call for some restraints. Your choice.”
“I bet you get off doing rectal temps on little boys,” he said nastily.
“Nope, only on big boys,” I said smiling sweetly. “Besides, you’re not that little.” I commented, looking pointedly at his cock as it peeked out from the tangle of his gown. He blushed furiously. “Now, what’s it gonna be? Restraints? Over my lap? Or will you turn back over and let me do it that way? Without problems.”
He quietly lay back down on his stomach and stuck his head under a pillow. I heard him mumble, “Go ahead.”
I lubricated the thermometer, spread his cheeks with one hand and placed the tip on his anus. I waited for the involuntary clenching of his muscles to pass, then slipped the tip in. Clenching again, then I twirled the slender tube in the rest of the way. Bruce came halfway off the bed, eyes wide, turned his head to say something, undoubtedly nasty, and stopped. I was giving him my “mean mother” look. About that time my supervisor looked in.
“How’s everything going in here?” Nancy said.
“FINE!” was the dual reply. And Nancy just backed out and closed the door behind her. (“I didn’t know what was going on in there,” she said later. “I just knew I didn’t want to interfere.”)
“You can remove your hand now,” Bruce said, referring to the hand still holding the thermometer in his rectum.
I smiled. “I think not. After all, as cooperative as you’ve been, I wouldn’t want you to expel it. Or for it to slip up inside and disappear.”
He groaned and burrowed back under the pillow.
The hand on the thermometer served a two-fold purpose – it did keep the thermometer from sliding out AND it afforded me an opportunity to mildly abuse this particular patient. I worked that thermometer as I’d never done before … twiddling it a bit, pulling it out some so that I could see if his temp had registered, sliding it back when I saw it hadn’t … and I left it in for longer than necessary. Bruce kept trying to disappear under the pillow. I finally removed it, wiped it down, read it, recorded the temperature in his chart, cleaned the thermometer very well, shook it back down and put it next to the oral thermometer on his table. I turned back to the cart and the two filled enema cans on it. I took the cooler of the two and hung it on the stand. I started attaching the tubing …
The ostrich pulled his head out of the sand and started to close the back of his gown.
“You may as well leave that,” I told him, catching his movement out of the corner of my eye. “We’re not done.”
He looked over at me, saw what I was doing, and said, in a small voice, “Oh shit.”
“Not yet,” I quipped. And he started laughing.
“Do I at least get a choice of positions on this one?”
“Nope. This one’s my choice. You will be in the ‘knee-chest’ position. And you may as well get in it now.”
“I have no idea what the ‘knee-chest’ position is,” Bruce said with a laugh that bordered on hysteria. “But I’m sure you’ll show me.”
I had mercy on the man. Sometimes hospital personnel forget how scary and humiliating medical procedures can be. I grabbed a sheet and drapped it over his backside. “Well, I’m not gonna demonstrate, if that’s what you mean,” I said, smiling genuinely this time. “But I’ll help. Get on your hands and knees, yes like that. Move your knees out until they’re even with your shoulders. Good. Now, lower your head and chest to rest on the bed. You can fold your arms under your head or you can hug your pillow again.” He laughed. “Perfect. You’re in position.”
“Now what?”
“Did your doctor explain any of this to you?”
“He just said I’d be getting a barium enema. I assumed that’s what this is.”
“Not yet.” I pulled on a pair of gloves. “Let me get started and I’ll explain as I go. Have you ever had an enema? No? Ok. First I’m going to lubricate your anus and rectum so that they’ll accomodate the tubing. I’ll be stretching a little as I go so it may be a little uncomfortable.” Bruce looked at the tubing and shuddered. I folded back the drape and slid a lubricated finger into his ass. It responded by clenching my finger. “Let me do this. Ok? Relax.” I moved it in, out and around a bit. Then I pulled my finger partially out and recoated it with lubricant before I slid it back in. Bruce jumped. “Sorry. Ok, now I’m going to insert the tube. It’ll go easier if you relax and don’t try to expel it. Take some deep breaths. Ready?” He nodded. I bled the air and enough water out of the tubing to make sure the first “flood” would be warm. Then I slowly inserted perhaps 10 inches of tubing. “You ok still?” Again he nodded, but I could see his body tensing. I started the water flowing, slowly, since he was an “enema virgin.” And I thought I heard whimpering. I moved so I could see his face.
Tears were streaming down his face. And I’m a sucker for a man’s tears. I asked, “Are you cramping?” He shook his head. “Hurt … oh, I know … feeling humiliated?” He nodded. “Can I do something to help?” He shook his head again. I reached under the drape and started massaging his abdomen to help with the flow of water, and to offer some comfort. “You want to know what comes next?” He nodded. “Ok, let me know if you start cramping and I’ll stop for a while.” I explained that he would be taking a series of enemas before the actual barium enema. These would continue pretty much until the water that came out was about as clean as what went in. But, given that he’d been on a liquid diet for 4 days, I thought the second one would do it. Then he would be moved to X-Ray where they’d administer the barium, take their pictures and bring him back here.
The can was empty and he’d not spoken a word. I massaged his stomach for 5 minutes more. “This one’s done,” I said quietly, as I disconnected the tubing from the can. “You need to go?” He nodded again. “Can you make it to the bathroom or do you want the bedpan?”
His expression darkened. “I can use the bathroom.” He got up and was a bit unsteady on his feet, but turned with great dignity and headed for the bathroom. Of course the image was destroyed by the fact that he was trailing the tubing like a tail. I went into the bathroom with him. “Can’t you leave me to do this by myself?” He said, irritably, as he sat on the toilet. I said nothing … just reached between his legs and removed the tube from his rectum. “Oh,” he said, eyes wide again. I did leave him to expel the enema in private and prepared the second one while he was occupied.
The second one went in smoothly. We talked as the water flowed into his bowels. He told me about things going on in his life, his job, his soon-to-be-ex-wife, his hobbies. I told him of my divorce, my future hopes, my pride in my son, and my wish to spend more time with my son. When the water stopped, we were almost disappointed. I removed the tubing from his rectum, first this time, helped him up and reminded him not to flush until I got a look at what he had expelled. As I’d suspected, it was pretty clear so no more enemas. Bruce climbed back on the bed pulled the covers over himself, closed his eyes and sighed a sigh that sounded like the beginning of an asthma attack. I stood at the side of the bed, having picked the thermometer back up and removed it from its case. I lubricated it and cleared my throat.
Bruce looked up. I held the thermometer up and raised an eyebrow. He laughed. “Do you have a fascination for men’s backsides?”
I smiled, “Some are better to look at than others.” His was magnificent. “Well?”
“How about taking me over your lap this time?” he asked. I sat down and patted my lap. He draped himself over it, not an easy feat since he was a tall man. I pulled his gown up to the middle of his back, separated his buttocks and inserted the thermometer in one smooth motion. Bruce was quiet. “Am I being a good boy, now?”
“You certainly are.”
“Then why aren’t you playing with it, the thermometer I mean, the way you did before?”
I had the grace to blush. “Ummm, do you want me to?” He nodded. So I did. He became quiet again, although he wiggled a bit in my lap as I twiddled the thermometer.
“Next time you give me an enema, could you do it this way?”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Never say never.”
When his temperature registered and I removed the thermometer, he stayed across my lap, with my hand resting on his bottom, as I called X-Ray to let the guys know he was ready. Then he got up, straightened his gown with great dignity and sat on the bed. I packed my equipment and stayed with him until the guys showed up. He stood, shook my hand and said, “Thank you, ma’am, for a most enlightening experience.” Then he sat in the wheelchair and was rolled away.
I was off for the next 2 days. When I came back, he had been released. I didn’t expect to see or hear from him again. I was wrong.
The rat had a lawyer friend call the hospital, saying that he was representing Bruce and that Bruce was planning to sue the hospital, and me in particular, for mistreatment of him while he was a patient. However “his client” may be willing to withdraw the lawsuit if given a chance to speak to the nurse who mistreated him. I eventually got that cleared up, and Bruce had reason to be thankful I wasn’t into real B&D. I was that angry.
We were married six months later and we had fourteen pleasure filled years together before he died at the age of 54 from liver cancer.