Stardust Diaries 2007

by Swan, Tarn

  Words cannot convey my dismay and revulsion when I discovered I had cooked and eaten rat. I thought I was going to faint. The faintly musky tang I had detected and couldn't place was now explained.

  Tara's face was a picture when I owned up to having scoffed Steve's dinner. However, sensing my horror, which was rolling from me in waves, she told me not to worry. It wouldn't do Steve any harm to wait a bit longer for a meal. Snakes could go weeks without food. She'd soon find a pet shop that sold pre-kill. She then assured me that what I'd eaten wouldn't harm me. Rat was eaten as a delicacy in many parts of the world. Not in my part of the world it wasn't.

  Tara introduced me to Steve, whom she obviously adored, petted and stroked him and invited me to do the same. I declined fearful lest he get a scent of his dinner about my person and take exception along with a large bite from my throat.

  I have no idea what prompts people to want to have a huge reptile as a pet. I find them terrifying. After coiling him back in his basket and fastening it, Tara headed back to the Dolphin Centre for a final run through of her act. When she’d gone I made sure the dining room door was tightly shut and then I bolted upstairs to the bathroom to heave my guts up, visions of scurrying bubonic rats with thick worm-like tails assaulting my inner eye.

  “TWINKLES!” I roared his name aloud in between bouts of sickness. I was so going to kill that boy of mine when I laid hands on him. Why hadn't he told me we had a large, potentially dangerous snake as a houseguest and there was rat masquerading as chicken in the fridge?

  Funnily enough when I called his mobile it was switched off and when Tara and Kevin called to collect Steve, they were Twinkless. Apparently he’d had a pressing need to consult with Lulu over some matter and had gone to his place to do so. Kevin passed on a message from him - he’d be late, so I wasn’t to wait up. Mention of rats was carefully avoided, as was my eye as both Tara and Kevin struggled to maintain straight faces.

  I did wait up for my treasure. An injection of morphine wouldn't have made me sleep. It was almost one in the morning when Twinkles tried to slip quietly in.

  As soon as he saw me materialise in the hall he let out a scream and charged up the stairs shouting he was sorry, he just didn't think to tell me about the snake or the rat meat, as he was so excited about going to the theatre and meeting Tara. By the way wasn't she nice, and anyway, how was he to know I'd have a Jamie Oliver moment and cook? He wasn't frigging psychic. It was just meat like any other when you thought about it. It was ratatouille with a twist and Steve wouldn't bear a grudge.

  He wasn’t a bit remorseful. In fact he was on the verge of giggles even when I flung him face down on the bed and walloped the seat of his jeans while yelling that he had made me eat maggot salad and now stir-fry rat. What was he planning next, fried fucking cockroaches? I told him he was a thoughtless airhead who couldn't be bothered sparing a second to think about anyone but himself.

  He stopped laughing when I told him I'd saved him some of the rat stir-fry and was going to heat it and force-feed him it. He said if I did, not only would he report me to my parents he'd tell Barry I'd developed a taste for rodents and he'd better lock up his gerbils.

  I relented and forgave him, but only after he'd worshipped and paid homage to my own particular pet python.

  Tara gave us free tickets for her performance last night. A large gang from the Pink Parrot turned up to watch too. I think it was one of the fullest houses she'd ever played to and certainly one of the most receptive and appreciative of audiences. Despite the barrage of rat jokes, some coming from the snake diva during her act, I enjoyed the show. It was colourful and entertaining.

  Tara and her snakes are now headed back to London where she's secured a regular weekend appearance in a Soho club. Alas, as far as Twinkles is concerned, there has been a consequence of the Tara Lott encounter. He’s developed a dreamy, faraway showbiz gleam in his eye and has taken to reading The Stage again while talking about doing an exotic dancing course and getting a snake.

  I’ve categorically told him the only boa he’s draping around his lovely Swan neck is the feathered costume variety. He finds it hard to come down after any episode of excitement and I suspect he might be even harder than usual to live with for a day or two.

  Frank has just dropped in. He's been doing so regularly since the sixth of January when his excuse for not taking down the outdoor Christmas decorations was no longer valid and Katie started to lean on him more heavily. He loves putting them up, but taking them down and packing them away is another matter. It's blowing a gale at the moment, which at least gave him a good reason and a fresh excuse not to make a start this evening: ‘I says to Katie, give over nagging, pet, its too wet and windy. I'll make a start tomorrow.’

  18th January ~ Blue Cross Day

  Today was the day Twinks has been waiting for. Today, in Sale terms, was the day that separated the men from the boys and when it comes to bargain hunting, believe me, my boy is all man, albeit in a frock and high heels. Yes, today was Blue Cross Day in Debenhams. Items, some reduced by as much as seventy percent to begin with, had an additional ten percent off, as denoted by a blue cross ticket attached to them. He was all geared up and ready to go. He’d taken the day off work, as had I in my capacity as his driver, admirer, gofer (as in go for this, go for that, get me this, get me that) and bag carrier.

  Wednesday night saw him finalising his plan of action. We'd hit our local Debenhams first, then go over the river to hit the Boro store, from there it was down the motorway to the Metrocentre store, then on to York and possibly fitting in the Eldon Square store somewhere along the line, before coming home to mop up any residual goodies on the Debenhams online store.

  For once getting him to move his arse off the mattress was no problem this morning. He was raring to go. I would have preferred him to keep his arse in bed a bit longer as I fancied making use of my morning erection.

  He made plain he was not to be trifled or dallied with. If I wanted hanky panky it would have to be the self-serve handy panky variety. He had things to be doing other than satisfying my insatiable desires, and really a man of my age needed to be thinking about slowing down in the sex department or I'd end up with a hernia.

  He was a man on a mission and sex was not included in that mission. His mission quite simply was to try and replenish at minimum cost the wardrobe destroyed by the bastard who broke into our house at Christmas. He had a pot of insurance money and was hot to trot and shop.

  We'd already replaced some items, his beloved pink mules for one thing, plus a pair of purple ones with gold sparkly bits for when he fancied a change. I also bought him another Cher wig. I love him with long hair, especially when it's the only thing he's wearing, aside from fluffy high heels as he hoovers the living room.

  Friends have been generous giving him gifts of makeup, jewellery, a pair of earrings here, a necklace there, evening gloves and so on. He was pleased and grateful for all items, but it was Barry who left him almost speechless with gratitude, which is some feat I can tell you. He called round one evening carrying a couple of elegant old-fashioned dress boxes, which he presented to Twinkles.

  The boxes contained two stunning evening gowns. They had belonged to his mother who was wardrobe mistress for a dance company. One was an original Coco Chanel. It was beautiful, a full-length black lace number that had Twinks all but swooning. It was like watching a silent movie as he took it out of the box, emotions flitting across his face.

  Holding it against himself he did a twirl and then draped it carefully over the back of a chair. He looked at me, awe writ large on his face. Putting a hand to his chest he whispered, “Chanel, Tarn, it’s a Coco Chanel, an original Coco Chanel. I’ve actually touched a Chanel gown that she may have touched herself.”

  The second gown was just as beautiful. It was a sumptuous cherry red velvet twenties style dress with an elegant diamante studded bow draped at the hip. Twinks was ecstatic. Clutching Barry to his bosom, tears bright in his eyes, he thanke
d him effusively and then demanded to know why in high hell he had never worn such gorgeous gowns himself.

  Barry explained that, apart from the Norman Bates connotations, he could never bring himself to wear them, because he knew he could never display them in a way she would have approved of. He'd be forever hearing her critical voice in his head. When she died he had given most of her stuff away to charity shops, but had kept a few fripperies and a couple of the more special gowns. He said it was his pleasure to give them to Twinkles in appreciation of the kindness shown him during his illness. He knew if anyone could wear them with style it was Twinks.

  A lovely gesture and a lovely compliment I thought. Barry is a sweet man. I’m glad we came to know him better, even if it did take a near tragedy to make it happen. I’ll never forget that night at the PP when he took an overdose in an attempt to end his life. He’s doing so much better now.

  Twinks is saving the gowns. They’re too special for ordinary occasions. They’re his secret weapons for the next Christmas and New Year Balls at the PP. My mother is going to help alter them to fit him. One thing’s for sure, he's going to cause some jaws to drop when he does wear them.

  Getting back to this morning. Twinks was ready for the off by half past eight. He was wearing a simple shift dress that he could unzip and step out of with ease to facilitate fuss free and speedy undressing when trying on stuff in the changing rooms. His capacious handbag contained an array of different size silicone breasts to insert in his bra.

  We had a small discussion before setting off: no mention of store cards was to be made, no matter what. I didn't care if they were offering immortality as an incentive to open a new account. He wasn't having one and that was that. If he so much as mentioned a store card I would spank him, wherever we happened to be when he mentioned them. We shook hands in agreement.

  Taking a deep breath I prepared myself for the day ahead. It was going to be tough. I was going to be one of the husbands hovering outside the changing rooms trying not to look self-conscious and embarrassed when my beloved stepped out to get my opinion along the lines of: ‘Tarn, I love this, what do you think, does it make me look too hippy, be honest?’ I learned long ago never to be honest when answering such questions. Conscious of the sympathetic eyes and silent support of other hovering husbands and partners, I will shake my head and give the expected reply along the lines of: ‘it's lovely’ or ‘it’s fine.’ Such replies apply to all items from clothing to jewellery and perfume. A wise husband learns that his wife is not asking for an opinion, she is merely asking for validation.

  Once opinion has been sought and given a hovering husband or partner then becomes a slave to be ordered: ‘go and get me a size twelve in this top and a size ten in that one and then get me that pink dress we looked at three hours ago because I think I might like it after all, oh and hand me my size 36B boobs.’

  By five I was ready to drop and he was getting fractious, almost having a fight with a woman who went for the same silk skirt he'd spotted on the £5 rail in the store in York. Plucking it from her hands he sweetly told her that with her hips she should avoid fine fabrics. It was home time.

  We had a takeaway for dinner and then he slipped into a rather sexy silk nightdress he got at the bargain price of ten quid instead of thirty-nine. We had a few glasses of wine and then we had sex. It was my reward for a long day as the partner of the queen of the blue cross bargain hunters.

  23rd January ~ Revealing a Secret

  My mood as I write is tense and unhappy. Life has taken a downward turn in a big way. It’s time to reveal a secret withheld for the best part of a year from everyone except closest family and friends. Yesterday we found out we've been turned down as prospective adoptive parents. For months we've gone through the procedure of applications, interviews, social reports, medical reports, meetings, more interviews and all for a negative outcome.

  The powers that be don't feel we can offer a proper or appropriate social and emotional environment in which to raise a child as our own. Oddly it was suggested we might pass muster as foster parents, but not to permanently adopt. I don't quite get the reasoning behind that. We can foster children, but not give them a permanent home.

  I don't believe the decision is to do with us being a gay couple as such, but rather the type of gay couple we are. The social worker assigned to us couldn't quite get her head around Twinkles’ 'sundry sexuality' as she once referred to it.

  Twinks is heartbroken and has cried continuously since finding out we’d been turned down. He’d convinced himself it was only a matter of time and procedure. He blames me for the decision that was made, saying I was never really keen and the social worker had picked up on it. He won't speak to me. He won't allow me to comfort him either physically or verbally.

  To be honest I'm feeling confused. The truth is I wasn't keen at first. I long ago accepted childlessness as being an inbuilt aspect of my sexual orientation. I think my paternal drives and needs have been satisfied in my relationship with him and also in having Dominic as a godson. That said, on hearing the news we’d been refused I felt a sense of loss. I'm still uncertain as to whether that sense of loss is on my own behalf or on behalf of Twinkles. To further complicate matters I also feel guilty because mixed with the sense of loss is a profound sense of relief. Life is never simple.

  7th February ~ Relationship Crisis and Days Long Gone

  It’s extraordinary how much can happen and how much can change in the space of a few weeks. I feel almost shell shocked by it all and unable to deliver anything other than an outline.

  Priscilla/Eric has proposed to my mother. She wasn't too pleased at first, annoyed with him for complicating a perfectly simple arrangement. How she came to the conclusion their relationship was perfectly simple is still baffling me, but never mind. She’s come round to the idea and they're planning a spring wedding.

  Lulu may be leaving us soon along with Natalie. Ever since Tara’s visit, they, and Twinks, have been talking about how wonderful it would be making a living as an artiste. I thought it would stay at just talk, as it has before. It didn’t, not in Lu and Nat’s case anyway. They’ve applied for entertainment jobs aboard a cruise liner, a yearlong contract to begin with. They’ve got interviews lined up. Twinkles is devastated at the prospect of them leaving. He didn’t take the news of their interviews well.

  My dad's wife Gill is expecting again. Dad told me last night when I went over to visit. I haven't told Twinkles. It seems too cruel in the wake of recent events.

  Brian has a new boyfriend. It’s two years since Steven died and life does and must go on. I wish Brian all happiness and yet my heart aches for Steven and for all they were to each other. I still hear his voice and see his face with my mind's eye. His early death was cruel and tragic, as is the death of all AIDS sufferers. I don't think Brian is entirely comfortable with the idea of dating again. He was almost apologetic when he told us he was seeing someone. He said he just didn't want to wake up alone anymore. I can understand that.

  The saddest change of all is in Twinks. He’s switched off from me. His discarded wedding ring lies on my bedside cabinet. It’s a symbol of his withdrawal from me, and a symbol of depression. I hold it in my hand for a while each day and pray I’ll be strong enough to see us through this crisis so we don’t end up being permanently lost to each other, just another statistic in the history of broken relationships.

  He’s developed a habit of taking a late walk. Most evenings at around ten he takes one of the pills he’s been prescribed and then leaves the house and I follow suit. We walk in silence, me matching my step to his. He keeps his head down, his hands tucked under his armpits, his shoulders hunched. After circumventing the Green and the village several times I touch his shoulder and quietly tell him it's time to head for home. He doesn't respond verbally, but turns his footsteps obediently homewards.

  Once home I help him undress and settle him in bed and then get in myself. He turns away from me. I kiss his shoulder, tell him
I love him and then, as he takes sanctuary in drug-aided sleep I stare sleepless into the darkness.

  The tension between us was made worse as a result of developments on the work front. To the relief of my staff it was announced our Civil Service department is safe for the time being. The Union's protests and arguments had an effect and it was decided not to move the main centre of operation after all, not yet awhile.

  My colleagues are happy to be staying put, but I was presented with a dilemma in the form of an excellent promotion opportunity, but at the offices in Bristol. It's a fantastic package with a generous relocation allowance. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted by it.

  I think it’s fair to say that life is tough at the moment. Sometimes I want to be young again, really young. I want a return to pre-responsibility days when it was down to others to be responsible for me. I want to go back to my childhood when life was without serious complications and when the worst of things could be fixed with a cuddle, a fizzy drink and an Elastoplast. However, such days are long gone. I'm responsible not only for myself, but also for others.

  9th February ~ Bon Voyage

  As per recent habit Twinkles got to his feet shortly after the late news started this evening in preparation for going out. I switched off the TV and made to rise. He told me he didn't want me to walk with him. He didn't need a bloody chaperone, least of all me. He hated me. I knew the words were angry payback because this morning I agreed with his doctor's decision not to prescribe more Diazepam. The tranquillising medicine was a short-term prop only. He can’t stay numb to life forever. Things have to be faced up to.

  As I said in my last entry I have responsibilities not only to myself, but also to others, primarily him. I wasn’t letting him go tripping around the streets on his own, not with the local pubs getting close to chucking out time. I coldly told him he wasn't wandering alone and he either walked with me or he didn't walk at all.