Enema. Fail.

[I promise to make this entry as benign as possible. My motivation for this blog is to document and understand the good, the bad and the ugly, and today landed on butt ugly.]

I have a reasonable idea of the spatial layout of my gastrointestinal tract and knowing when and where I feel full, empty, clean, not clean and combinations thereof. The prospect of anal sex increases my focus on bodily movements though: when preparing for an expected encounter, I eat lighter meals a couple of days prior, pay heed to my bowel movements and do a quick clean in the shower with a finger and gentle soap before leaving the house in case a curious tongue or hard cock probes its way around there. When I’m not satisfied with my feelings of emptiness or cleanliness, I communicate and we focus on the myriad other ways of sharing pleasure.

Something happened a few months ago that’s meddled with my relaxed ritual, and I’m not pleased because I keep thinking it’s not my fault.

I was with Jekyll during one of our hotel afternoons and he made indications towards anal penetration, but we’d gone out for a late breakfast before we checked into the hotel. My stomach was heavy with an impulse order of eggs Florentine, which triggered the gastrocolic reflex too early and I felt increasingly full and uncomfortable with digestive machinations. I told Jekyll I didn’t feel empty enough and but was coaxed into listening to his counter-claim that everything would be all right.

Wrong. I won’t go into too much detail but I was indeed full, the sex was uncomfortable and I called a stop and ran to the shower when I caught smell of the waste I warned him about.

Instead of listening and respecting my knowledge of my body, Jekyll defended and suggested I learn the ancient art of administering an enema. The thought has drifted through my mind ever since, wondering if one of us was right or wrong or if a formal cleansing was a useful practicality rather than an attempt to obliterate a conflicting guilt trip (on one hand it’s partially for his benefit so I sense guilt trip , but on the other hand he is comfortable with self-administration when he’s been a bottom for gay and bi men he’s had sex with so it’s no big deal for him).

Anyway, as part of the education process I spent part of an afternoon messing about with an enema kit (not the fancypants, scary one that looks like a hot water bottle and hangs in the shower, but a big squeezy bottle with a three-inch tube). Not happy. I got lube over the bathroom floor, fluids escaped during administration and more towels were soiled than I’m going to admit, the toilet needed a damn good scrubbing after expulsion and I don’t think I got enough liquid inside to conduct a thorough cleansing despite the mayhem in the bathroom. The hours of subsequent cramping indicated I tried to force the warm water too quickly or too much air was introduced when trying to piece together a workable process.

Fuck that shit.

I know my body. I also know I don’t like to fail but on this occasion I’m content to flunk the masterclass in scouring one’s insides.

(And remember to follow qualified and verified opinions if searching for advice on the web. I checked about 20 sites and at least a dozen contained conflicting information and advice bordering on negligence. At least I learned how to erase my web browser’s history as I was using The Drummer’s computer and there is such thing as too much information.)