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A Bum Session

28-nov-2002

During anal sex one night last month, I unintentionally painted U’s dick the colour of mud. Always the gentleman, he told me there was something in his way. Red–faced, I trundled to the bathroom, but no amount of force or willpower on my part could dislodge the offending brown bucket from up my colonic ladder.

U came to the bathroom door, gingerly, asking if I’d managed “to drop some friends off at the pool”, as he called it.

“No-o,” I answered, singsong, in an attempt to sound casual.

U suggested we flush the problem out. In a small way, I was proud to be presented with my first enema dilemma: rinse and spit, or wait for gravity to do its (or rather my) business? More than that, though, I was embarrassed to be talking about my bears in the cave. The cave part I can handle, but when I invite friends to go spelunking, it just seems bad manners to have grizzlies in there, curled up warm and toasty.

Hornier than he was put off, U urged me to rinse. “I’ve done it to guys lots of times.”

“How many?” I asked sheepishly.

“With every boyfriend,” he answered, chuckling as though the sex–writer’s shyness was cute.

Determined not to let my readership down, I agreed to rinse.

“Get in the tub and squat over your knees, butt in the air, with your shoulders as close to the bottom of the tub as you can go,” U coached.

I’d like to say at this point that I mused on the myterious practice of enemas. For example, how a shark enema regime once kept a cancerous friend alive for ten productive years instead of the 6–month sentence doctors handed her or the occasional stories of drug–infused enemas which are popular with partiers for their instantaneous blood–stream absorbtion. No such civilized thoughts went through my head.

“When I pull this out,” U warned, “squeeze real tight or you’ll be squirting me in the face.”

As he removed the spout from my butt, I sucked my hairy pucker in so tight I heard furniture move in the next room.

“Now jump up and down. Swish it around,” U advised. “You feel it in there?”

“Not really,” I said.

“Well, sit on the toilet and just frigging push it out, all at once.”

I thankfully convinced him he should leave for this next part, then sat, pushing. The best I could manage for ten minutes was a slow ummph–splurt routine, over and over. There was no great purge. U returned, puzzled by the time I was taking, and gave me tips, but nothing seemed to open my floodgates. Humiliated and, finally, drained, I gave up. I rinsed off in the tub, ruined a towel, and crawled into bed feeling ridiculously unsexy.

I was worried U would be grossed out, but he curled around me, unfazed, nuzzling my ear. With intimate matters, sometimes you’ve just got to relax and let it go.