I was 15, and the year was 1957. I had passed out in the bathroom with
some really severe stomach cramps. Mom and Dad heard the thud and came
running, but I was coming around by the time they got there. They got me
to my bed, and Dad stayed while I got into my pajamas and Mom called the
doctor, because she was afraid I might have appendicitis.
Dr. Bill came to the house (they did that in those days), and examined
me, punching and probing. He told my parents that I did not have
appendicitis, that the cramping had probably been caused by gas. On his
way out, I heard him tell my parents to give me a soapsuds enema and
that that would help me expel the gas. I was horrified. I knew what an
enema was because I had seen a boy get one when I was in the hospital at
13, and that boy was one unhappy camper. As they went downstairs I heard
him telling them to pour some Ivory Flakes (soap flakes were available
then, this wasn't detergent.) into some water and to fill the bag, and
that once it was in for me to hold it for five minutes. They were
thanking him and asking him other questions as I listened at the door to
my room. My ears were burning with embarrassment.
My parents were not enema people. I knew there was an enema bag in the
closet outside their bedroom, but I thought that was used only as a hot
water bottle. I know my older sister had not had one, and I could tell
that my parents had probably not had one themselves.
Mom went into the kitchen and Dad passed by my room on the way to the
closet. I almost cried from embarrassment. "Don't give me an enema,
Dad!" I pleaded.
"The doctor said you needed it, Bobby, so go back to bed and rest."
Mom and Dad seemed uncertain about what had to be done. I heard them
talking between them as to how much soap should be in the solution, and
they agreed on a half-cup and then "a little more". Then I heard them
coming upstairs. Dad came into my room with the enema bag and Mom went
to get the Vaseline (I knew where that was kept—in the drawer on Dad's
side of the bed, along with a box of Trojans—I guess he didn't know not
to use Vaseline on them.)
The red bag was full and bulging. I could tell that they felt as awkward
as I felt embarrassed. They seemed clumsy as they arranged things. Mom
want to the bathroom, which was just a few feet from my bed, and got
some towels and folded them to put under me. I was very unhappy.
Finally, Mom said the fateful words, "Bobby, turn over and slip your
pajamas down. Dad was still holding the bag and hose and mom had the
Vaseline jar open.
I turned onto my stomach and pushed my pajamas down. I was very self-
conscious about the newly grown, bushy pubic hair that I didn't think
they had ever seen. The last time Dad has spanked me was at 12, and it
hadn't started growing then. I tried my best to hide it. I pushed my
pajama pants down just enough to expose my behind. Dad reached down and
tugged them down a few more inches as I watched Mom dip the black nozzle
into the Vaseline.
I turned away and felt Mom's thumb and forefinger tried to spread my
butt cheeks as Dad looked on. But she couldn't do it with her fingers
and turned to pulling them apart with each hand, really wide. Dad moved
the light closer so she could see better and she inserted the enema
nozzle, misjudging the angle, and I jumped as she poked me. Dad was
tense and flustered and barked at her to be careful, as she again spread
my cheeks and inserted the nozzle gently but firmly and held it there.
"Go ahead," she murmured to Dad, as he released the clip and held the
enema bag high. I felt the water flooding into my rectum. In retrospect,
I know now that Dad was holding the bag way too high and the solution
was much too soapy, and that they were making me take two quarts,
probably too much for my age. I gasped and clenched my buttocks together
to control the urges. Mom held the nozzle securely in my rectum as she
and Dad watched the bag empty.
"Take it out…PLEASE!" I cried. They didn't say anything but it kept
running. Once or twice Dad clamped the hose for a few seconds.
"Just a little more, Bobby," said Mom a couple of times. I was gritting
my teeth and clenching my fists. I had forgotten my embarrassment and
was concentrating on keeping the harsh enema in. To this day, I don't
know how I did it.
Finally the bag emptied and Dad gave it to Mom to take out of the room.
He stood there and held my butt cheeks together to help me hold it in,
and firmly told me that I had to hold it for five minutes. Dad was a "by
the books" person, and I knew that if the doc said it, it would be done.
I don't think it was quite five minutes later that he helped me up and
into the bathroom, and sat me on the toilet to expel the enema. He
stayed with me, not so much to supervise as to make sure I didn't fall
out again. It seemed like forever until I got it all out.
Dad ran some water into the tub and helped me take my pajamas off and
take a warm bath. He then helped me dry off and get back into bed. I
realized that my embarrassment had faded and that I was comfortable with
him in my nudity. It was shortly after that that we began going to the
YMCA together, and I had felt that he had accepted me in a new,
respectful way. I idolized my dad.
Although it was not at all erotic at the time, it has provided me with
erotic fantasies ever since. The next enema I was to get later in the
year was before going to the hospital for an appendectomy.