Anthony - How precious was that while: an autobiography

Table of Contents

Alien Plot
But What of Earth?
Demons Dont Dream
Faun & Games
Ghost
Hasan
Hope of Earth
Letters to Jenny
Race Against Time
Shade of a Tree
Steppe
Xone of Contention
Anthonology
The Dastard
DoOon Mode
Geis of the Gargoyle
Harpy Thyme
Heaven Cent
Isle of Woman
Prostho Plus
Roc and a Hard Place
Shame of Man
Triple Detente
Yon Ill Wind

Zombie Lover

WITH ROBERT E. MARGROFF

Dragons Gold
Chimaeras Copper
Orcs Opal
Serpents Silver
Mouvars Magic
The E.S.P. Worm

The Ring

WITH FRANCES HALL

Pretender

WITH RICHARD GILLIAM

Tales from the Great Turtle (Anthology)

WITH ALFRED TELL A

The Willing Spirit

WITH CLIFFORD A. PICKOVER

Spider Legs

WITH JAMES RlCHEY AND ALAN RIGGS

Quest for the Fallen Star

WITH JULIE BRADY

Dream a Little Dream

WITH JOANNE TABUSCH

The Secret of Spring

WITH RON LEMING

The Gutbucket Quest

EPISODES

M y first sexual experience occurred, as I remember, at age four. I was in bed alone when an attractive young adult woman entered the room, uncovered me, removed my pajamas, and addressed my bottom. She was very pleasant and soft spoken, and her touch was gentle. She required me to lie on my right side, facing away from her, and she ran her soft hands across my buttocks and into the cleavage between them until she found my anus. She spread some salve on it, then firmly pushed something in. I jumped, surprised, as this was new to my experience, but she told me to relax, that it was all right, so I eased my clench and let her continue. She reassured me as she worked it well inside me, and I was not really discomfited despite the strange penetration. In fact there was a special quality to the sensation, arousing my interest. It turned out to be the nozzle of a hose, sliding on and on in once the sphincter had been breached. When it was firmly set, quite deep, she lifted the other end of the hose high and used a pitcher to pour water into a funnel. I turned my head so I could see as she smilingly did it. The cool water coursed down the hose and into my rectum, filling me up. There was a transparent place in the hose, where I could see bubbles pass, so I knew the fluid was going into my body. This was a second type of penetration, with its own odd pleasure. But she didnt have enough water; the pitcher ran out, and she had to pause to refill it, with a friendly exclamation of surprise, as if we were accomplishing something unusual. I was evidently taking in more water than expected, but there was no problem; she would keep it going until enough was in. Thats about all I remember, over half a century subsequent.

Years later I learned what this procedure was. It was an enema, done to clean out my bowel in preparation for a tonsillectomy. Im sure I had to sit on the potty thereafter and blow all that water out againI have a very obscure impression of thatand later I must have been given ether or something to render me unconscious, and later yet I must have had a sore throat. I vaguely remember being told I could eat anything I wanted, like ice cream, but for some reason I wasnt very hungry. So it was done, and nobody thought anything of it. But I remembered that pleasant experience with the young woman who had touched me so intimately and shown me what could be done with that part of my body. My horizon had been broadened in a way I was never to forget, as this narration shows.

Another night, at home, I dreamed. I was with my sister and the nanny, and we stopped at a gas station. I thought the nozzle of the gas pump would be put in the car, to fill its tank, but suddenly I was lying on my stomach on the ground, my bottom was bare, and they were putting it into my anus. I was caught by surprise, just as I had been at the hospital, and exclaimed with protest, but to no avail. The fluid came, filling me, pumping me up, making my body expand, but the feeling was in its way pleasant, with a special extra quality. And so I remembered that dream.

When I was perhaps eight, I dreamed again, of being held in the arms of a lovely young woman who somehow had access to my bottom and was running something deep into my rectum. Only ten minutes more, she murmured reassuringly. I didnt mind; the whole experience was pleasant in a way I wanted to continue. I did not understand either dream at the time I had it, but, looking back from the vantage of adult sexual and anatomical experience, I believe I do now.

I am thoroughly heterosexual; I love the look and feel of women. I like every part, and really appreciate long hair, but the sight of breasts or inner thighs truly electrifies me. Even a cartoon picture of a woman with her skirt rising attracts my attention. The idea of anal sex with a man repels me. But I think back on the lingering effects of that early anal contact with the hospital nurse, and I wonder whether something like this couldnt make the difference, if a man were of borderline sexuality. If he oriented on the rectum rather than on the woman. Homosexuality surely has a strong genetic component, but there are cases of identical twins, one of whom is homosexual, theother heterosexual. Did someone, in the name of medicine, exploit the private parts of one, and lead him to an orientation that solidified in adulthood? The association of the enema hose, with its copiously jetting fluid, is obvious. I am, as I mentioned in BiOgre, suspicious of the medical establishments seeming fascination with the anus, even using it to take temperatures. Is there a consequence no doctor would like to acknowledge? I have seen comments about men who do like it in the ass in the course of heterosexual sex play. I have no real evidence, but at times I do wonder.

There are other things. One of the most traumatic events of my childhood was not something that happened to me, but to my sister. I call it rape. I describe it in the Reprise chapter, but since it wasnt in BiOgre and had a lifelong effect on my awareness, Im covering it there too. My memory begins with me alone in a strange room, but I knew my mother and sister were near. Then I heard my sisters voice, rising, protesting, saying no, no! So I walked through the short hall and came to a room where my sister was sort of sitting on a bench or table, and several adults were clustering around her. They held her and did something to her, and she screamed, but they did not relent. They held her arms and head, and I think I saw a splash of water. Mainly I remember her little feet thudding against the surface of the table, as she vainly tried to run away. But they were merciless. They made her hurt as much as they could, then let her go, crying. One of them turned around at that point, and saw me standing there in the doorway. He saw! she said. And the memory fades out.

It took me more than fifty years to fit that stark memory into the framework of my other memories, to piece the puzzle together. That was my sisters tonsillectomy, a considerable contrast to my own. Mine was like pleasant sex; hers was like violent rape. It was in Spain, in 1939, time for what was routine minor surgery in those days, though today it seems there is no need for it. But in Spain, so soon after the Spanish Civil War, many things were lacking, including safe anesthetics. So, they said, they would do it without anesthesia; it was after all a small, quick operation. Not on my child! my mother exclaimed, and they agreed to find an anesthetic. So she brought us in, left me in the waiting room, and took Teresa on into the clinic.