Enema Man

Dear Kinkers,

Recently, The Book Forum posted an article claiming that the most unique thing writers can do is perhaps shut up about sex. The writer claimed that we live in a time where people feel pressured and judged for being Vanilla (talk about a Cadillac problem). I decided that what perhaps would spice up a column dedicated to kink would be to define kink loosely to include stories of nuance, salacious detours, kinky hair,  feeling oddly “other” and  fetishizing the unsexy. I wanted to feature writers I dig and admire as they explored the nomenclature of kink as well as offered some meat and potatoes meth- shooting adventures and cross-dressing blackouts. This week, in honor of you and the aforementioned Book Forum article, I bring you my own Lusty Lady portrait, “Enema Man,” which  was banned from “Medium” due to its “questionable” content and because I just won’t shut up. 

Your Editor in Kink,

Antonia Crane


IN OUR FISHBOWL, men’s faces wobbled and bobbed. Their blurry eyes darted in the darkness as they watched us dance naked behind glass. When the money ran out, the black rickety partitions slid down with a crash. Hot light bounced against the mirrored walls as I slid down the single brass pole one more time then stepped off main stage and walked into the dressing room. My knees hurt from bending over in seven-inch stilettos and my thighs burned from lifting them above my hips and pushing my pussy against the windows where men’s faces steamed the glass.

It was time for my shift in Private Pleasures. Through the satin red curtain was the bright white dressing room where I snatched my backpack out of my metal locker and filled it with my dildos, lube and one bald black boa. I inhaled cum and bleach as I approached the cage, using a flashlight to guide me to the Private Pleasures booth. I dodged wet crumpled Kleenex scattered in corners of the hallway, but one caught on my heel so I scraped it across the floor to free it. The cage was near the front entrance to the Lusty Lady peepshow, where the shock of sunlight clobbered me the same way it did as walking out of a matinee into daylight. I squinted and unlocked the employee entrance door, hung my thrift store Japanese turquoise robe on a gold hook then crawled into the booth where it was always night. It wasn’t big enough to stand up, but just big enough to wiggle around on all fours on scratchy red carpet.

Inside Private Pleasures, I could speak with customers through a microphone from my side of the wall by pushing the silver button. They could talk too, but they had to feed the cash machine or else the window fell down, separating us by a thick, black wooden wall. I sprayed Windex on the glass until the windows were streak free, arranged my three dildos on the ledge from smallest to largest and felt sorry for myself for having such an asshole for a girlfriend.

That morning, Critter and I had sat in her Pepto Bismal pink kitchen drinking tea. She saw me shove the dildos into my backpack for work, which meant I intended to use them for my private pleasures gig.

“Why ours?” Critter asked. The steam from her tea wilted her green Mohawk. It slid over to one side.

“I make better tips if I show variety.” She lunged for a toasted poppy seed bagel and her monkey tattoo bulged when she dipped a knife into the gob of fake butter between us. Our knees touched. Our dildo was a thick bright dong with marbleized pink stripes—almost the same color as her greasy walls. What kind of person chose that color for walls? I felt suffocated by pink slime and smeared a thin layer of cream cheese on my sesame bagel and bit into it.

“Is it for Herbert?” She sneered.

“No. Herbert’s a morning missile.” Herbert was also known as Zucchini man. He was a slim and brown, Native American guy with luxurious black wavy hair and one silver feather earring that dripped gracefully down his neck. He liked to contort himself like Gumby in a corner booth, and balance on his shoulders so he could suck his own dick. After applauding him, we dancers watched him lift a zucchini the size of a body builder’s forearm from a plastic bag and lower himself onto it. He showed up at 9a.m., right when the Lusty Lady opened, and the 9a.m. clients were called “morning missiles.” I envied Zucchini man for knowing exactly what he needed to get off. His desire was a pure, direct arrow hitting my bisexual gut as I drifted from boys to women and back again. The faces he made while the zucchini was inside him reminded me of Butoh dancers lunging and crawling towards death with open, white powdery mouths. The zucchini, which was more of a gourd, was his gift to us.

“Throw it away,” Critter said. A collection of poppy seeds gathered in her big teeth. She wanted to keep me to herself—or at least the cocks she fucked me with—But, like the last stick of bubblegum in a pack, I always came back wrinkled and soggy.

“What?” I munched one half of my bagel and smeared the other with blackberry jam.

“I bought it. Toss it.”

“I’ll replace it.” I stood to leave and was halfway down her stairs when cold water soaked the back of my faded Pat Benatar shirt.

Mangled peonies splattered my platform boots. I turned around. Critter, the mellow, soft butch with deep dimples and bloodshot eyes— a lifeguard at an Elementary school— was shaking with rage. I slammed her front door shut with its stained glass tulips and vowed to do whatever the fuck I wanted with whomever the fuck I wanted—girlfriend be damned.

In Private Pleasures, I pushed the silver button, which signaled to clients “I’m here,” but no one was waiting for me. Might as well masturbate, then again, I could be paid to masturbate. When men watched me do dildo shows in the cage, I felt like I had a small purpose.

Just as I took the oily cabbage rolls from their white takeout box, I heard the steady click of money being counted by the machine. The red digital display showed twenty-five bucks: my tip was the five bucks on the twenty. The curtain lifted and a tall man with a wide forehead and noble nose stood in front of me. He waved delicately. “Hi handsome. On your lunch break?” I said. The tall man wore a suit and a beige Fedora. He stood in front of me but didn’t speak. He had a rolling black suitcase next to him. Must be staying at the Hilton, I thought. He removed his clothes with care like Mr. Rogers. He hung his pressed shirt on an elegant wooden hanger and placed it on the door handle.  He got naked except for the hat. His busy fingertips moved in the dark. He held scissors and a couple of large black garbage bags that he lifted out of his suitcase and he began to cut the bags until he had one big flat piece of plastic. He taped the flat pieces together with tape and attached the whole thing to the wall behind him, like a tarp.

He bent over again then popped up holding an enema bag. He held it close to the window and dangled it like infomercial ladies do with porcelain kittens and tennis bracelets. I placed my hands on my cheeks with delighted interest. The red digital clock buzzed, alerting the end of our time and the window slid down with its raspy crash. “Oh no,” I said. I heard an elbow smacking the door and the rustle of legs hit the wall. He put more money in and the window rose. Our eyes were glued together again.

His enema bag was filled with water and he held it up with chalky white gloves and then he placed his water bottle down onto the floor. I smiled politely at him approving of his efficiency. He smiled back with the same smile he gave his five-year old son on mornings he’d slice a ripe banana and toss it on top of his Rice Crispies. The same smile he gave his wife after a forehead kiss— the same smile I gave Critter that morning before our fight.

He inserted the enema bag into his behind and began pumping in the water. I could tell that he was getting full because his expression changed from thrilled to relieved to nirvana, then he cringed. “Oh My!” I said, trying to sound repulsed rather than amused. I leaned back onto my elbows to watch him from my cramped glass box, cold and slim as a coffin. I opened my chilly legs and turned my rug-burned knees towards him. His eyes were closed. From the cage, my only requirement was to watch him— but I doubted my every gesture. I reached for the pink dildo and my lube, wet my fingers with it and moved them towards my pussy. “Do you want me to play with myself?” He shrugged his shoulders.

His expression moved to bliss again and his forehead bumped against the glass. He vibrated and jerked with peppy violence—as if he were a dancing vessel to be filled up and emptied. His hat tipped and fell off and his left hand held his cock. He bit the trial size packet of lube with his teeth and set it down on the ledge in front of us. I placed my palm on the glass for a half second, but he kept pulling away from the window—stretching the membrane between us.

Moments later, he came with his hand on his cock and his eyes to the ceiling, water and shit sprayed behind him— raining all over his tarp. He reached into his luggage for a roll of paper towels and wiped his ass. He threw the garbage bags into the trash can and cleaned his hands and legs with antibacterial wipes. He zipped his slacks, buttoned his shirt and put on his coat and hat. He opened the door and knocked on my window with clean knuckles. Then he walked towards the pure and silent sunlight.

About Antonia Crane

Antonia Crane is a writer and performer in Los Angeles. She teaches Media Writing at UCSD to students who know more about Tumblr than she does. Her memoir “Spent” is forthcoming on Barnacle Books March 18th, 2014. Her other work can be found in The Rumpus, Dame Magazine, Salon, PANK magazine, Black Clock, The Believer, Frequencies, Slake, The Los Angeles Review The New Black, and lots other places. She can be found running up the mountain in Griffith Park. She blogs and tweets and all of that :http://antoniacrane.com.
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