Stardust Diaries

by Swan, Tarn

  I was halfway through presenting my report for my department when the door opened yet again and he came into view, briskly tapping his watch and telling me not to make a meal of it, as the meeting was scheduled to finish in ten minutes and we had to get to the shops. I gave him a wild glare and he hastily retreated. I apologised for the interruption and finished giving my report.

  The chairwoman was just summing up when there was a shriek followed by a series of thuds and the frantic jingling of bangles. I rushed out into the hall to find him in a heap at the bottom of the staircase. It had suddenly struck him that the Town Hall's wide staircase was rather splendid, a little bit Hollywood, and therefore perfect for making grand entrances. He had taken himself to the top of it in preparation to sweep down in grand entrance style, only he lost his footing halfway down and made the remainder of the descent in a very un-grand style on his bottom.

  Fortunately he was unhurt. He salvaged the situation and his dignity by making a gracious, slightly self-deprecating, but disarming apology. A few people expressed their gratitude that he'd cut short one of the chairwoman's notoriously long summing up sessions.

  Once in the privacy of the car I gave him a long, cool look, which he disarmed by planting a kiss on my lips and telling me I looked dead sexy when pontificating in front of a crowd. In return I told him that his antics had brought him closer than he's ever come to being publicly spanked and if he ever interrupted my pontificating in front of a crowd again I would have no hesitation in turning him over my knee and finishing my speech while smacking his bare bottom. For some reason the thought of that turned him right on and we almost had to get a room.

  We had a pleasant afternoon. I bought new shoes, a new tie and a shirt that all met with his approval. However, we couldn't come to an agreement about a suit. He spotted a pink one he liked and I said a resolute NO. We had a look in a couple of formal hire shops, but I didn't really fancy a full morning suit or tuxedo. In the end I said that seeing as I wasn't allowed to see his dress before the day then he wasn't allowed to see my suit. I would buy it when on my own. He gave me a list of provisos: no broad stripes, no pin stripes, no wide lapels, no polyester and no navy blue, or brown, or beige or cream or white. Basically it looked like I’d be wearing black.

  While he was browsing the bangles and beads in Fenwick’s I browsed the kitchen department and purchased a sturdy new rice paddle. I kept it out of sight, as I didn't want to spoil his day. He bought a new dress, some underwear, some long gloves, numerous pairs of tights, makeup and some fancy diamante hair clips to use on his Cher wig. He was deliberating over a couple of extortionately priced handbags when I touched a discreet hand to his backside and quietly told him he'd spent enough for one day. He wasn't pleased, but he put them back without argument and managed a smile when I put my arm round his shoulder and gave him a brief hug.

  Once home we went to bed to indulge in some kissing and cuddling and then we went out to the PP. The only discordant note was that Lulu wasn't there again. Twinks has barely seen or spoken to him all week. He's missing him and a part of him resents that he's otherwise engaged with the boyfriend we have yet to meet. He feels Lulu isn't as focussed on his role as our chief bridesmaid and witness as he ought to be. Still, there are plenty of other PP friends dancing attendance on Twinks at the moment. Our forthcoming ceremony is a cause of some excitement in our corner of the cross dressing world. There are lots of hopeful wannabe bridesmaids waiting in the wings, ready and willing to be asked to rustle behind us wearing yards of glamorous taffeta and tulle. Twinks is lapping up the interest and taking full advantage of his time in the spotlight.

  I'd best sign off. We've got mum and Prissy coming for lunch and judging from the cursing and swearing emanating from the kitchen Twinkles is having some kind of altercation with the chicken.

  10th May 2006: A Very Pubic Affair

  There was total pandemonium in our house this morning. One moment I was in a state bordering heavenly bliss and the next I was close to suffering complete cardiac arrest. Our usual breakfast routine had taken an amorous turn and Twinkles was using his mouth and tongue to work some real fairy magic on my wand when suddenly he dug his nails into my thighs and a terrible pain shot through my groin. He rocketed to his feet and began staggering around the kitchen wild-eyed while clutching at his throat, making the most terrible choking noises. I began screaming at him to spit it out, convinced that he'd bitten off my pride and joy and was choking on it. A quick glance down assured me it was still where it should be, albeit considerably shrunken in size and throbbing for reasons other than it had been moments earlier. I quickly turned my attentions to Twinkles, slapping him hard between the shoulder blades several times, but whatever was lodged in his throat didn't want to come out.

  I was on the verge of calling for medical assistance when he was sick bringing up his breakfast along with the obstruction, which turned out to be a pubic hair. I don't know which of us was the most shaken by the incident. It was lunchtime before I could hold a cup of tea without spilling it. He was apt to be shirty with me for having what he termed loose pubes, and worse, loose pubes with the consistency of wire wool that in all probability had pierced his windpipe. It could set off an infection and he'd be the only person in history to die of pubic hair poisoning. I reminded him that in his hysteria he'd bitten my beauty and it could very easily turn septic.

  He's spent the day sucking antiseptic throat lozenges and I've spent the day periodically checking my manhood for any sign of non-erotic swelling. He's demanding I start shaving down there, or consider letting him do a full Brazilian on me. I've told him that pigs will fly before I allow him anywhere near my snooker set with a pan of hot wax. Needless to say oral is right off both our menus. On the bright side at least it wasn’t a grey pubic hair he choked on.

  13th May 2006: Enid Blyton

  My sister is currently visiting. She arrived on Friday afternoon. We all had a good time at the PP last night, and even Lu abandoned his beau to turn up and help Maryann enjoy being an honorary drag queen. She's more over the top than the rest of them put together when she gets going.

  In respect of her visit Twinkles took a long weekend off work, which he began on Thursday. As I headed home that night I entertained fond thoughts of having a refreshing shower while he put the finishing touches to one of his delectable homemade lasagnes, of which I would have several helpings along with a glass or two of fine red wine. In my happy little mind some leisurely pottering about home and garden would then follow this pleasantry. The day would finally be concluded with a cuddle in front of the telly while finishing off the wine and watching an episode of House, with me dissuading him that he's suffering from any of the afflictions suffered by the patients in it. The best laid plans of mice and men…

  On arriving home I discovered the man I had left in bed doing a passably cute impression of one of the Seven Dwarfs that morning i.e. Sleepy, had morphed into one of the less cute of the Seven bros i.e. Grumpy. There was no available hot water for a shower (did he look like a frigging mind reader, if I wanted hot water I should have called and asked him to put the emersion heater on) The fantasy homemade lasagne turned out to be just that, a fantasy. The cold reality being a tin of mushroom soup followed by a pot of out of date raspberry yoghurt (don't be such a fusser. It's only two days out of date, it won't kill you) I confess to being a tad disappointed and foolishly ventured to hint as much. It was a foolishness I regretted as my ears took delivery of a verbal onslaught. The gist of it was: did he look like a facsimile of a frumpy fifties housewife? One whose sole purpose was to wait on her smug husband hand and foot and have his pipe and slippers at the ready and a home cooked dinner on the table the moment he set a foot through the door of an evening?

  I humbly responded in the negative and begged his pardon, but did that placate my grumpy modern boy? It did not. He felt obliged to confirm that indeed, INDEED, he wasn't a frumpy, etc, etc. I was also made aware that us getting married wasn’t going to turn
him into one either. He had things other than cooking and cleaning to take care of on his days off. He wasn't there just to serve my selfish domestic needs. My mother was right when she said that all that bloody men wanted from a spouse was food and sex, and look where that had got him, almost choking to death on my unnaturally course body hair. He was sick of being taken for granted and we weren't even married yet. In fact he was having second thoughts about the whole damn thing. He then stormed out of the kitchen slamming the door behind him.

  For a moment I entertained a daydream where I was indeed married to a nice docile, homely, fifties style wife who met me at the door with my pipe and slippers plus several beaming, gleaming, good natured children who kissed daddy goodnight and then went to bed leaving him to enjoy his home cooked dinner in peace. I then heard a mental voice, which sounded remarkably like my beloved’s, snapping, 'wake up, Tarn, this is real life not an Enid Blyton story. There are no Fannies only Dicks in this tale.'

  Taking a deep breath I cautiously ventured into the living room were Twinks (George in reverse) was sitting watching Hollyoaks on telly. His arms were folded, his legs crossed, one mule slapping aggressively against the sole of his foot, the very epitome of disgruntlement. I asked what was bothering him. I'd prefer to know exactly what it was rather than be used as a scapegoat for the temper it had left him in. He curtly informed me that he was trying to watch television and could I therefore shut-the-fuck-up. Now, I will take a lot from Twinkles, an awful lot at times and while it was plain his day had not been of the best, it did not entitle him to tell me to shut up in such an insulting and disrespectful fashion. Promptly turning off the television I hauled him to his feet landing a forceful smack to the seat of his jeans as an overture to taking them down and turning him over my knee to administer an attitude adjusting spanking. I didn't in the event. The floodgates opened and my annoyance evaporated. He was clearly distressed about something.

  Once he'd explained what lay behind his sour attitude he went over my knee for a spanking anyway, but just a token one, a couple of sharp swats for not telling me in a straightforward, non theatrical manner that he was upset and worried. It turns out he'd gotten himself in a tizzy over something and nothing. It was to do with our forthcoming marriage…and yes I do feel justified in referring to it in those terms because it is a marriage. It’s a legal and binding civil contract between two people that requires process of law to annul it, just as it does for heterosexual couples that choose a civil marriage without benefit of clergy. Being a Mr and Mr will make us no less married than a Mr and Mrs.

  We provisionally booked the date for our wedding a few weeks back and on Friday we had planned to go and give the official notice of our intent, which has to be given at least 15 days before the chosen date. For this purpose we needed to take various documents including birth certificates to the registry office. He couldn't find his copy of his birth certificate. He’d spent the day turning the house upside down, but there was no trace of it. He couldn't see his grandfather allowing his mother to hand over the original, especially if he twigged the reason for its need. The mean minded old bastard had refused to give it to Twinkles for purposes of applying for a passport when he and I were planning our first trip abroad together. We'd had to apply for a copy of it, a process that had taken several weeks at that time.

  Poor Twinks had envisaged us having to cancel our ceremony. No wonder he'd been in a bad mood. The thought of having to approach his family, cap in hand, and ask them for something had knocked him right off kilter. He was angry for getting into a position where he would have to do so. Often if he's very angry with himself he copes by apparently being angry with me. As much as anything it's a form of self-punishment, because the meanest thing he can do to himself is to be mean to me. It's also a way of getting me to take charge without directly asking me, something he finds very hard to do if he's locked down in negative emotions.

  I had an idea that birth, marriage and death records were no longer all administered from a central location with only a limited staff to manually process requests. In fact I was pretty sure the whole process was now automated and could be done online. I was right. The remedy was much simpler than he’d feared. He was absolutely thrilled. I must admit I blanched slightly when I saw it would cost the best part of fifty quid to guarantee we got a copy of his birth certificate within three to four days. As long as we give official notice of our intent with the required documentation by next Friday, we'll be fine with the date we've set.

  I'm going to take charge of the new certificate when it arrives, as I suspect he threw out the other copy when he was having one of his periodical drawer cleaning frenzies. He's a menace when one of those moods takes him. He chucked out my collection of PG Tips tea cards once, the famous cricket players set. I was gutted. It had taken me most of my childhood to get the entire set. I'd had them laminated and everything. Besides, I don't fancy having to shell out fifty pounds every time we need his birth certificate for something or other. Twinks often claims that if I were any tighter I'd squeak when I walked. I don’t care.

  I may not have got my lasagne that evening, but a much sweeter tempered Twinks made me a very nice cheese and pickle sandwich. I also got my cuddle in front of the telly with a glass or two of wine while watching House.

  I'm not going out this evening. I feel a bit rough. I've got a chesty cold and my ribs are aching with coughing. I don’t fancy spending a Saturday night in a crowded smoky club. Twinks will have to show Maryann a good time while I have an early night with some Vicks vapour rub for company.

  14th May2006: Angel Of Death

  Twinks is in my bad books today and I'm in his. He keeps shooting glances at me from eyes suggestive of a martyr under extreme torture. He's barely spoken to me all day and thus I was able to read all the Sunday newspapers in peace, utter luxury. How has he incurred my wrath? Let me count the ways, or way...

  As I said in my previous entry I was feeling unwell yesterday and decided to have an early night while he went out on the town as per usual. I was deep in a fevered sleep when a terrible crash awoke me. I sat up in bed, heart pounding with fright, only to laugh at myself as another crash sounded overhead followed by a flash at the window. A hard rush of rain on the rooftop told me a storm was in progress. I glanced at the clock. It was twenty-five past two. I frowned.Twinks should have been home. I hoped he'd managed to get a taxi all right. I was just reaching for my mobile to call him when another crash came. Only this time it came from inside the house. It was followed by unearthly screams and then something shot past the bedroom door and crashed down the stairs.

  I leapt out of bed and raced onto the landing only to thud back against the doorjamb, as a flash of lightening illuminated the room behind me and my terrified eyes came to rest upon a dark robed apparition hovering midway between floor and ceiling. My immediate thought was that I was more ill than I realised and the Angel of Death had come to harvest my soul. I almost died of vagal inhibition. The subsequent shock to my stressed system set off a severe coughing fit. I feared that not only was I going to lose bladder control, but that my lungs were going to end up adorning the carpet. What an undignified way to go, wet and lung-less.

  A hysterical voice cut through my frenzied hacking and demanded that I rescue it from the light fitting as it was beginning to make crackling noises and he feared electrocution. I quickly got my arms round Twinks' legs, for it was he hanging from the ceiling, and helped lower him safely to the floor. It was quite a few minutes before I managed to stop coughing long enough to ask why the bloody hell he was swinging from light fittings in the middle of the night in the middle of a storm? I also demanded to know what the hell had crashed down the stairs. I hoped to God it wasn't Lulu? Thankfully it wasn’t wasn't Lulu or Maryann or anyone of our acquaintance. In fact it wasn't a person at all.

  Let me give you the succinct version. He had gotten home after a jolly good evening out, congratulating himself on getting in just before the storm struck and on not waki
ng me up. He had gone into the bathroom to begin the process of removing Miss Stardust's face from his own. Just as he'd peeled off his false eyelashes the bulb blew in the bathroom and he was plunged into darkness. He knew we didn't have any spare bulbs, so he had the bright idea of removing the bulb from the landing light and putting it in the bathroom so he could finish cleansing his face in front of the mirror. Fair enough. He got a chair and stood on it, after wisely removing his six-inch high heels. The bulb was stiff and he had to give it a good twist, and that was when disaster struck. The chair shot out from beneath him hurtling along the landing and down the stairs leaving him dangling from the light fitting.

  I gazed at the shattered remains at the foot of the stairs. Call it reaction to being unwell and awoken from a deep sleep to be apparently confronted by the Angel of Death, but I had a sudden clear vision of descending the stairs to find him lying amidst the wreckage of the chair with a broken neck. Turning to him I quietly asked if he really thought standing on a wheeled computer chair to change a light bulb at the top of the stairs was a good idea, especially in the dark and while wearing a long dress? Ah, but he'd taken off his high heels though, credit where credit was due. I demanded that he just answer the question please. He admitted that commonsense would seem to dictate that steps or even a chair with sturdy legs, one supported by a second party, was preferable to a chair with wheels and no second party, especially when the first party had partaken of several alcoholic beverages and was apt to sway like grass in a breeze.