Chapter 1

Chloe and I have been together for ten years and married for five. No kids — it’s not high on either of our agendas. We share a paraphilia, which is the clinical term for a fetish. For example, podophilia is the clinical term for the paraphilia, foot fetish. This is not to be confused with pedophilia, which is not a paraphilia but a disorder. It’s a disorder because pedophiles injure children. Podophiles injure no one, except maybe for a pedophile with a thing for kids’ feet. In that case, I would think that pedophilia trumps podophilia. But, I digress.

The paraphilia Chloe and I share is called klismaphilia, which is deriving sexual pleasure from enemas. “How can anyone derive pleasure, much less sexual pleasure, from that?” I hear you ask. I can’t explain it — it’s just in me — in us. Anyone who’s into the practice will understand. I would pose the same question to a podophile, because I don’t get any thrill from feet. Lots of folks have their kinks, and this happens to be ours. Since no one is being injured and no law is being broken, what Chloe and I do in private is no one’s business but ours.

Until Chloe and I met, this was a solitary fetish for each of us. Which is, I imagine, the case for most klismaphiles.

What follows is the story of how we met, how we discovered each other, and what it is we share.

Ten years ago, Brian’s was a tavern owned and run by a friend of mine. It’s gone now. I liked the place because he imported real English draught ale to go with his authentic pub dinners. I was sitting at my favorite table, sipping my pint of bitter and awaiting my order of fish and chips. Sitting at the bar was a young woman I hadn’t seen before. She was a pretty blonde, petite and dressed in office attire. At another table were a pair of players, and they looked like they were looking for some action.

I saw one of the players buy the blonde girl a drink — another glass of red wine. The bargirl pointed in their direction. blondeie lifted her glass to them, then hopped off her stool to join them.

I watched as the three of them flirted. Then I saw it: Player 1 distracted blondeie and Player 2 slipped some crystals into her drink.

I got up from my table and went to Al, a linebacker on the local college football team who works part-time as Brian’s bouncer. I filled him in on what I had seen. He gave the barmaid a sign to phone the cops and headed toward the table to have a word with the players.

Al tried to detain the two jokers until the authorities arrived, but they slipped away from him when they saw the red and blue lights flashing outside. Meanwhile, I sat at the table to check on the bewildered girl.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “They weren’t causing any trouble.”

“I saw one of them slip something into your drink,” I replied.

She lifted her glass — now empty — and looked in the bottom. Some granules remained in the pool of leftover wine. “Oh, my God ... Excuse me — I’m gonna go try to throw up.” She stood and steadied herself on the back of a chair. “Oh, I feel so odd...”

“If you’re feeling it,” I said, “even if you could force yourself to vomit, it’s probably too late. It’s already in your system.”

“I’m so dizzy.”

“Sit down.” She sat, folded her arms on the table and put her head on them.

By now the cops were here and Al and I filled them in. One of them used his radio to call an ambulance.

The paramedics arrived. By now blondeie was in the thrall of whatever drug they slipped her. She was incoherent and very suggestible. We had no trouble getting her to the ambulance and strapped onto the stretcher.

The cops had gone through her bag. Her only ID was an out-of-state driver’s license — her name was Chloe Sanger, and she was 27 years old, though she could’ve passed for nineteen.

Al and I gave statements to the cops and descriptions as best we could of the two players. Then I hopped in my car and headed to the hospital. When I arrived the ambulance was pulling away from the emergency entrance.

I went to the desk and gave my name. “Was a Chloe Sanger admitted?” I asked.

“Are you a relative?”

“No — I’m the guy that called 911,” I replied making a small white lie. “I wanted to see if she’s all right.”

“Have a seat.”

I sat in the chair and waited. Night turned to dawn and I still waited. The shift changed. Finally, around eight in the morning I saw Chloe come from the emergency department, escorted by a nurse.

She approached me. “They say you’re the one who intervened.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“I guess I owe you some thanks.”

“It’s all right — I’d have done it for anyone.”

“I can’t believe you stayed here all night. Don’t you have someplace better to be?”

“In fact ... no. I wanted to make sure you were all right. How are you feeling?”

“Like my head is full of cotton. They’re releasing me, though.”

“What did they do to you? Pump your stomach?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember anything. I tell you, it’s an experience waking up in a hospital and not remembering how you got there.”

“What did they tell you?”

“They said they found rohypnol in my system.”

“Rohypnol, huh?”

“They said it’s a date-rape drug.”

“They’re releasing you? Do you have a ride home?”

“I’ll call a cab.”

I shook my head. “My car is in the lot. I’ll drive you. Back to Brian’s to pick up your car?”

“I don’t think I’m in any shape to drive — I’m still pretty woozy. Best to take me to my apartment so I can sleep it off. I’ll deal with the car later. I already called my office and told them I was taking a day off.”

“Let’s get out of here, then. I hate hospitals. They’re full of sick people.”

She wasn’t too steady on her feet, so I supported her as we walked toward my car. “Where’s your apartment?” I asked her.

“Do you know The Towers?”

“Yeah...” I started the motor and headed there. “How long have you been in town?”