Enter the Nurses

I'm a lucky man.

I found and fell in love with a girl who didn't just tolerate, but shared my own sexual proclivities and fetishes and I ardently believe that our sexual compatibility has contributed to our having a sound and happy marriage for more than a few years.

She has always accepted me the way I am and, until recently, she never asked about my sexual predilections and preferences. She still accepts me and loves me but, for one reason or another, one evening after a particularly satisfying tryst, as we were lying entangled together in the afterglow, she said, quite unexpectedly: "So, why do you think you have such a strong anal fetish? What do you think caused you to be that way?"

I had never really thought about it. I just thought, well, we are what we are and who knows why, but she did cause me to start thinking about the subject.

Why AM I a butt man?

As always with such ruminations I started with my parents or, in my case, parent. My mother took me and my sister when we were very young, and left our father. And well done, Mom. He was a wastrel and a scoundrel, an alcoholic, a degenerate gambler, and an abuser of anyone who dared to care about him. Mother, on the other hand, was a registered nurse and perfectly capable of supporting us on her own.

Unfortunately, leaving Dad was probably the only sound and rational decision my mother ever made, at least on the home front. In her life, other than her nursing text books, she had read a total of three books about which she never tired of talking. They were Chariots of the Gods by Erich von Däniken, The Holy Bible (King James Version, of course), and Sylvester Graham's Lectures on the Science of Human Life. How she came to settle on those three is anyone's guess but it was the third that had the most profound effect on her children.

Sylvester Graham is most widely remembered as the inventor of the Graham Cracker, that crunchy, tasty morsel upon which we love to slather chocolate and marshmallow. What is often forgotten about the Rev. Dr. Graham is that he was something of a crackpot who lived and preached a stringent diet and health regimen, the sole purpose of which was to eliminate the dreaded scourge of masturbation that was, he preached, polluting and destroying the minds of America's youth.

He, and his protégé, Dr. John Harvey Kellogg, yes, he of cornflakes fame, imagined and invented all manner of torturous ways to improve health and stifle not just the sex drive but sexuality altogether. Prominent among his nefarious methods was the yogurt enema.

Yes, be shocked, gentle reader, you read that correctly. Yogurt enema.

By the time my mother birthed my sister and, a year later, me, Misters Graham and Kellogg had been roundly condemned and discredited for all but their crackers and cereals. But mom never got the memo.

Shortly after my 18th birthday, the year I was supposed to leave for college, my mother decided that we needed to adopt Dr. Graham's enema regimen as our own. She started with yogurt, as per the good doctor, but eventually decided that yogurt was too expensive to be shooting up our butts and settled on warm water and, occasionally, mineral oil. Every Saturday night, at her insistence, we three would gather, naked, in her room and, under her tutelage, we would administer enemas to each other.

My sister, Julie, and I hated it, of course. It was uncomfortable, it was embarrassing, and it was humiliating. We begged, we whined, we complained, we screamed, and we raged, all to no avail. Our mother was nothing if not a master of passive aggressive manipulation and sooner or later, we always discovered that it was just easier to give mom what she wanted. So, no matter how loud and plaintive our protests, we always found ourselves, heads down, butts up on mother's bed which was, for the occasion, covered with a rubber sheet, with a red nozzle stuck up our bums, our bellies filling with whatever ablution she had deemed fit for that particular Saturday night. And then running to the bathroom to evacuate in welcome privacy.

Sunday morning all would be forgiven and forgotten as we munched our cornflakes and headed off to the Church of the Lord Jesus on the Cross, our whatever denomination she had settled on that particular year. By Monday I would feel the dread starting to build as we made our way inexorably toward Saturday and a repeat of the enema rituals.

Then, one day, I realized that I wasn't really dreading it all that much. In fact, some little thing within me was actually - Oh, dear God say it isn't so! - actually starting to anticipate our Saturday nights with something like a mild excitement.

I was nineteen years old by then and I was actually looking forward to seeing my cute little, twenty-year-old sister and my beautiful, statuesque, thirty-nine-year-old mother naked on their knees. I was anticipating with something like excitement, how I would dip my finger into the petroleum jelly and lube their anuses, running my finger in and out, feeling their sphincter muscles tighten and then relax, and hearing them moan as I prepared them for their enemas. I was picturing in my mind how I would insert the enema nozzle into their waiting and lubricated rosebuds and how I would slowly release the liquid into them. I was playing over and over in my mind when they would do the same for me. And I was getting mightily turned on as I thought about it.

Denial was one of my mother's primary modes of existence and it served us well in those days. Every Saturday night, as we went through our ritual, I would get a raging erection and they would become visibly wet in their nether regions and we would all pretend as though it wasn't happening. We never talked about it and I never told anyone about it until I told my wife and, now, you.

When mom insisted that I go to the local junior college for my first two years and commute from home, I did not loudly complain or argue, and neither, I noticed, did Julie. (It was not utterly lost on me that her enema epiphany happened to fall upon her just months before I was scheduled to move out of her home.) The Saturday night enema rituals continued and our protests abated a little each month. Even after I went away to college in my Junior year, the Saturday night enema rituals only went on hiatus until the times when I returned home and would find some pretext for resuming what I, by then thought of, as our play time.

Dr. Graham was, no doubt, roiling in his grave to discover that his enemas, the purpose of which was to prevent masturbation, were, in fact, the very cause of a virtual orgy of masturbation in our house every Saturday night after we three went to our separate beds.

So, one of the reasons or causes, if you will, for my anal fetish was, no doubt, all those Saturday nights, the memories of which still haunt my fantasy life to this day.

The other, or at least another, reason is to be found in the following story in which I have changed the names of the participants and some of the details to protect the naughty, as it were.

___________________________________________

Twenty-three years old and I had experienced sex with just one, count 'em, one girl, four years earlier. She was my next-door neighbor, a year younger than me but much more experienced, and we had spent the summer exploring sexuality as only two, constantly horny, young people can.

After that summer between my last year of high school and my first year of college, however, we had gone our separate ways, me to college and her back to her all girls parochial school and we had not seen much of each other since. Now I was just a constantly horny, graduate teaching assistant, at a large, midwestern university, studying communications, teaching public speaking, and trying to figure out how to write a thesis that would be accepted by the committee. Nearly every student in the college of arts and sciences, the nursing school, the med school, and the business school was required to take one quarter of public speaking, so we GTA's were busy. Really busy, but fairly remunerated.

The university very generously provided good health insurance for teaching assistants but one of the conditions of receiving it was to get a physical at the university's clinic. As a high school athlete, I had had my share of required physicals and I hated them. They were always uncomfortable and embarrassing, and sometimes painful.

So, I put this one off for as long as I could until the department head tracked me down in the TA's office and told me that if I didn't get the physical that week my insurance would be discontinued. He had even taken the liberty of making an appointment for me in the middle of the afternoon the following day, he said. He slapped a manilla file full of forms on my desk and said, "Be there. Don't make this a problem for me, Kyle."

I nodded, glumly.

The next morning, I was more than a little angry and anxious about having to get the physical, but I made sure I was well showered and smelling good when I headed off to campus for my only class, a graduate seminar, in the late morning. I had a light lunch and, a little before the appointed hour, I trudged over to the university clinic at the medical school with the requisite paper work in hand.

The place was a bustling hive of activity with med students, nursing students, interns, residents, attending physicians, assistants, and low-level bureaucrats all hurrying about their business. Here and there one could even make out some patients schlepping up and down the hallways in paper hospital gowns, being attended to for minor problems - ear infections, sore throats, colds, and ouches of different kinds - and, no doubt, getting physicals necessary for athletics and, like me, health insurance.

The receptionist/medical assistant, Ms. Humphrey, one of several MA's working in the office, was a plump brunette, a not unattractive lady in her thirties, who seemed sympathetic and understanding. She confirmed my appointment and immediately took me back to an examination room. She handed me one of those green, paper gowns that's impossible to tie in the back, told me to take off all my clothes "including your socks and underwear" and put the gown on and she would be back in a couple of minutes to get the preliminary information.

I did as I was bidden, folding my clothing neatly and placing them on the only chair in the room, and putting on the gown without even trying to tie it in back. I took a seat on the examining table and settled there to wait. After a few minutes, Ms. Humphrey knocked and entered at the same time, clipboard in hand. She went through the paperwork with me, making sure all the i's were dotted and the t's crossed and then she took my temperature, pulse, blood oxygen level, and blood pressure. Finally, she led me out into the hall to the scales where she managed to weight me while holding the back of my paper gown closed at the same time.

"I'm sorry about bringing you out here," she said. "I was supposed to weight you before you got your clothes off but I forgot. It's been a crazy day." I assured her that it was no problem at all and I wasn't the least uncomfortable. I lied.

Back in the exam room she had me sign a couple of things, patted my hand, appologized one more time, handed me a six-month-old Sports Illustrated, and left. As she exited, she stopped and turned back, "Oh, doctor will be here in just a couple of minutes. And, I hope you don't mind me saying, you smell really nice. I'm sure the student nurses will appreciate that." She smiled, then, and left.

A couple of minutes turned out to be about 40 minutes. Enough to read pretty much the entire Sports Illustrated and get a healthy start on a National Geographic I found in a magazine rack on the back of the door.

Finally, there was a brief knock at the door and a gray-haired man in a white lab coat, his glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, entered and introduced himself as Doctor Thrum. And behind him followed five student nurses, all in scrubs with stethoscopes around their necks and, each in their own way, as cute as they could be.

Dr. Thrum explained: "Today we have some guests. These ladies, sophomore nursing students from, uh, the nursing school, are here to shadow the doctors and participate for the first time in a little bit of hands-on patient care. I hope you don't mind." Then he proceeded to introduce the girls to me by name.

In two cases, however, he needn't have bothered. Two of them were students in one of my public speaking classes.

Great. Just, great.

Janine was a tall redhead with long, curly hair and a face full of freckles. She had an athletic way of moving and she was an enthusiastic member of the university's ski club. One of her speeches had been about skiing vs. snowboarding. She came down on the side of skiing but wasn't a snob about it. I remembered that she was so nervous her hands shook. Funny, she wasn't afraid of screaming down a mountain at 50 miles per hour on skis but she was terrified of talking in front of 18 of her peers. Go figure.

Lilith, or Lily, as she preferred, was a thick, bubbly little ball of energy who surprised no one when she announced that she had been a cheerleader in high school and she really, really, really missed it. She had brown hair cut short and her nose turned up and all you could think when you looked at her was, "cute." If you looked up the word cute in the dictionary you would see a picture of Lily.

Later I realized that I should have said something, told the doctor that two of these ladies were students in my speech class, but at that moment, I was so mortified, so embarrassed, so filled with panic that I simply could not think. And, before I knew what was happening, Dr. Thrum had begun my physical examination.

Nearly everything he did was repeated five times by each of the student nurses. Dr. Thrum looked in my ears and then each of the girls looked in my ears. Dr. Thrum looked down my throat and then each of the girls looked down my throat.

No wonder he was running forty minutes behind schedule. This was going to take forever. Palpitate abdomen, repeat five times. Thump back and listen to lungs. Repeat five times. JESUS!

And then he said something that made me forget about the time it was taking. Now, Kyle, if you'll just hop off the examination table and lift your gown a little, we'll show these ladies how to test for a hernia.

Oh, crap!

I slid off the exam table, stood and leaned back against it and lifted my gown enough to expose my genitals and the doctor stuck his finger up beside my testicles on each side and had me turn my head and cough. Then each of the nurses did the same. By the time it was over I had coughed until my throat was raw. I took some comfort in seeing that they were as embarrassed as I was. Two of them, one being Lily, were visibly blushing.

Finally, it was over. I dropped my gown so I was covered and hopped back up on the table. But Dr. Thrum stopped me.

"Okay, just one more thing and we're done, here. We usually don't do prostate examinations on patients as young as Kyle, here, but I think this would be a good opportunity for you ladies to have that experience and feel what a young, healthy prostate feels like. Besides, prostate cancer strikes young and old alike so we can't be too careful. So, Kyle, if you'll just stand here and lean over the table and spread your legs a little."

Wait, what?

Prostate examination? What the hell was that? At that age I didn't even know what a prostate was. And why did I have to bend over and bare my ass to these girls?

I found out in short order. I leaned over the table, my gown fell wide open, exposing my backside to all who cared to see and I felt Dr. Thrum spreading my butt cheeks and his lube finger gliding up my ass. He felt around up there, found what I discovered was my prostate, and squeezed it so hard that I felt like I was going to pee. "Yes. Nice and soft and healthy. Just what we like to see. Or, feel, that is." He chuckled at his own joke. "Now, ladies, you'll want to don one of these gloves and use some lubricant. As your hands are relatively small, except for you, Janine, I recommend you use your middle finger. Come on. Step up. No need to be embarrassed. It's just medicine."

And they did step up. Each of them, sticking their fingers up my ass. Some rough, some gentle, and Janine, she of the large hands. Oh, my God. She went last and by the time she was stripping off her glove and tossing it in the discard receptacle, I realized that I had an enormous erection.

Dr. Thrum handed me a handful of tissues to wipe the lube from butthole as he continued to lecture the girls about something. I have forgotten what he was talking about because he had given me a difficult decision to make. Did I continue facing away from the girls and clean my ass as they watched, or did I turn around and face them with my erection tent-poling the front of my hospital gown while I wiped my ass.

I opted for the front view.

I turned and let them see the full effect of their ministrations. Mr. Johnson was at full attention under my gown, standing tall and unmistakably proud. There you go, ladies, have a good look. This is your fault.

And, God help me, every one of them did. They tried to hide it but it was like they'd never seen a hard on before. As Dr. Thrum talked on an on, I just stood there and they all stole sidelong glances that dissolved into full on stares at my tent covered boner.

Eventually the good doctor picked up the clipboard, signed my papers and handed them to me with a handshake and a thank you as he led his little retinue on to the next victim.

I, on the other hand, was left to try and figure out how I was going to look Janine and Lily in the eye on Monday morning when they came to my speech class.

____________________________________

Monday morning arrived and I entered the classroom with my usual breezy bonhomie. "Good morning elocutionists, all. I trust your weekend was both pleasant and restful, n'est-ce pas?" A little French usually helps lighten the morning lethargy; I've found.

All eighteen of them replied with various mumbles that amounted, mostly, to "whatever." I tried to avoid making eye contact with Janine and Lily but could not do so. My pedagogical style was to make constant eye contact with my students, moving my gaze here and there about the room. To suddenly stop doing so would be so totally out of character for me that it would draw unwanted attention and even suspicion. So, I did as my mother had so beautifully taught me. I created a shield of denial and stepped behind it. I looked at Lily and Janine as though nothing had happened the previous week. Nothing at all. Lily smiled and looked down at her shoes. Janine gave me a big, I've-got-a-secret grin. I looked away.

The assignment for this particular morning was a speech of five to ten minutes which purpose was to inform or educate the audience about something related to your major. I asked for volunteers who wanted to make their presentations first and Janine and Lily's hand shot up. Fortunately, a couple of other hands shot up as well and I called on one of them.

The first was a rather dull presentation from an English major about the life of William Shakespeare. I gave him a C+. Second was fairly amusing speech about why breakfast used to be the most important meal of the day but isn't any more. A-. The third was about, I swear before my maker, the Rev. Dr. Sylvester Graham and the invention of the Graham Cracker. She ended the speech by handing out samples of same, made by her according to Dr. Graham's original recipe. They tasted faintly like cardboard.

Finally, the only two hands remaining in the air were those of Janine and Lily. I called on Janine and she went striding to the front of the room. None of the nervous, hands trembling, fear I had seen before. This time she was the picture of confidence and good cheer.