It was not this sharp, ever.

Continued from a previous discussion of Incredibly Awkward Remedies for Crazed Bowel, I bring you one and all, the Rowasa Enema!

If I could play introductory music on here, it'd have to be the Star Trek fight music. You know, the da-da-DA!DA!DA! (etc) tune they trotted out every time Bill Shatner needed to trip somebody, or rip his shirt. (By the way, this is just killing me today.) Ah, Star Trek.
Sadly, I do not have photographic evidence of the RE, so the above montage will have to suffice. The RE has been my companion on a few adventures. I particularly recall some contortions in a bachelor pad bathroom, on a floor wet from showers, my face inches from suspiciously curly hairs...but enough romance, let's get back to basics.

The first time I filled an RE prescription, my CNP made sure I had plenty: I walked out of Walgreens lugging two shopping bags loaded with boxes. I got home and ate some mashed potatoes, sat on the toilet a while and read The Corrections to get myself in the mood for later. I ignored the boxes, which was easy as I'd hidden them in the closet in the bin with scarves and hats. A. would never think to look there in August, I chortled to myself. A. came home, we watched a movie, he ate some pizza, I ate some applesauce, and we went to bed. I waited until I felt him twitch a few times, and then I slipped out to the living room.

"Put a towel on the floor the first time you do this," my CNP had said. "It can stain."
Feeling virginal, I spread a nice red towel on the carpet, dragged out the boxes and slit open the foil packaging. It felt like opening a science project, or maybe some freeze-dried spices.

The bottles were small with little caps. I spread the instructions out and tried to position myself in the least vulnerable way the manufacturers suggested. I gritted my teeth, hiked up my nightgown (oh devious!) and inserted.

"What are you doing?" A. asked.

It may have been obvious.