by Swan, Tarn
“If by real you mean his assigned birth name, it’s Jonathan. He identifies more with the name he chose for himself. There’s a touch of irony in it too.”
“How come?”
“It’s based on the lullaby ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ when it goes: twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are. That’s how he felt about himself growing up, uncertain of who or what he was. He says it’s also how most other people feel about him, straight and gay. There’s always a question there, what are you?”
“I guess it can’t have been easy for him.”
“You don’t know the half of it. His family treated him like shit.”
“Sorry to hear that. My dad was a bit bemused when I first came out, but we’re good now.”
“Some of us are lucky with our parents.”
The door opened and Twinks popped his head in. “I’m going to order, do you want anything?”
“No thanks, love. I’ve already eaten.”
“What about the garage man, does he want anything?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Not for me.” Stuart got to his feet. “I’m going now.”
“Do you have to?” Lu put in an appearance, pushing past Twinks. He gave a flirty smile. “I’m having sweet and sour chicken. I don’t mind sharing.”
Stuart smiled. “Thanks for the offer, Lu, but I must be off.” He turned to me. “I’ll sort out the paperwork for the car and give you a ring in a couple of days, okay?”
I stood up. “Thanks, Stuart. I appreciate it.”
We shook hands and I saw him out and then returned to the living room.
Lulu pounced. “He’s a bit of a dish. Has he got a boyfriend?”
Twinks chimed in. “I’ve already told you, Lu. Tarn’s more likely to get a date with him than you are. He’s a butch boy fancier. He’s scared of us more delicate types.”
“I can be butch.”
“Take out the u and shove in an i and then we’ll be talking.”
Lu looked puzzled and then the penny dropped. He scowled. “When it comes to bitches you’d know all about it seeing as you’re the queen of them.”
I stopped the row before it started by sharply telling them to get on with ordering their supper. By the time it arrived Twinks seemed to have lost his appetite and only picked at the lemon chicken he’d ordered. He barely spoke a word either and it was clear he was ruminating on something.
After giving Lu a lift home I got back to find Twinks already in bed watching telly, or pretending to. I got undressed and climbed in beside him, offering him my arms, which he accepted, snuggling into them. I demanded he speak and tell me what was bugging him.
“Nothing. What’s this Cramer car like then?”
“Didn’t you notice it as you came in tonight? It was that silver BMW parked outside.”
“That grey thing you mean. Trust you to be conned into buying a car the colour of old underpants.”
“Behave, Twinks. It’s a beautiful car. Wait until you see it properly. What’s eating you?” I kissed the top of his head. “I didn’t plan for him to call when you were out you know. It was coincidence.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“You always look comfortable when you’re talking to him, at ease. I’ve noticed it before. You’re like two regular blokes. No one would guess you were gay. A blind man could pick me out as gay just by hearing me speak. It makes me worry I don’t contribute enough testosterone to our relationship.”
“You contribute more than enough testosterone where it counts. There’s nothing for you to be jealous of. He’s a decent sort. I like him, as an acquaintance and nothing more.”
“I don’t trust him. He fancies you.”
“Actually I don’t think he does anymore. He’s one of those men who only fancies what he knows is available.”
“Good, because you’re not available. I have exclusive rights to you.” Reaching for the remote he turned off the television and set about proving he had testosterone enough to match even the most macho of men.
At breakfast this morning he brought up the subject of availability again, not mine, but Lu’s. Lu would jump at the chance of a date with the garage man. Did I think it was a possibility?
It was a nice idea, but I didn’t think there was much chance of it happening. Lulu had cast out a clear and baited line, but Stuart had been careful not to bite. As I told Twinks, you can’t force such things. They have to happen of their own accord.
6th July ~ Sad Times
Gill gave birth to a premature baby boy on Thursday the twenty-eighth of June. She was just into her sixth month of pregnancy. Despite best care and all effort he wasn’t ready for life outside the womb and died a short time afterwards. Gill and dad named him Thomas. They dressed him, held him, had their photograph taken with him and then this tiny scrap of humanity was laid in the earth on Monday the second of July.
No funeral is easy to get through, but this was one of the hardest we’ve ever attended. My father isn't a man given to public displays of emotion, but as he carried his baby son's tiny white coffin into church the tears poured unchecked down his face. It was painful to witness in a way I can't even begin to describe. Throughout it all Gill maintained a serene dignity. She said she was glad her son had lived long enough for her to hold him and at least he hadn't died in her womb without ever knowing human touch. Sad times.
6th August ~ A Grand Summer Garden Party
My poor neglected diary. I thought it time to try and pick up the journaling thread once again.
One quiet Sunday afternoon not so long ago, after perusing the long-range weather forecast, his royal highness decided we should plan a grand summer garden party before the sun decided to forsake the sky and give way to rain once again. I wasn’t keen. A grand garden party sounded a bit too much like hard work. I proposed an alternative and suggested we invited a few friends over for dinner or maybe a less grand casual barbecue.
I much regretted my suggestion. In a beautifully symmetrical action he took a sharp intake of breath and clamping his hands to his hips causing a jangle of bangles, delivered a response.
Where was my imagination, hmm? Barbecues were so common. Everyone had them. They were like a virus contracted from watching too many Aussie Soaps. English barbecues bore no relation to their Aussie genus. For the most part they were, except when we did them, horrible, smelly, smoky, artery-clogging events. They were full of over processed undercooked meats and limp listeria infested salads. He despaired of me at times he really did. There was no glamour left in the world and it was all because of people like me with a barbecue, come in your shorts, mentality.
A statement was issued. We were not having a barbecue. He was not having people coming in shorts in his garden, dirty devils. We were having something more refined. We were having a grand garden party. It would be an all day affair with a strict dress code. Guests would be expected to dress up in their finest and not down in their dowdiest and that included me. He would not allow me to slop along in faded jeans and a baggy t-shirt. Had he made himself clear?
What could I say after a tirade like that? You know Twinks. Once he gets the bit between his teeth there's nothing short of a bullet can stop him. Delivering a kiss of resignation to the tip of his sweetly flushed indignant little nose I told him to get on with it and tried not to let cold fear take a grip as he flopped down on the couch and flipped open one of his beloved fancy notepads to begin making lists. He was happy and I was glad he was happy because I reckoned with one thing and another we'd had our share of unhappy and were due a measure of its antonym.
His first list was a list of things for me to do on the very morrow. My jaw dropped as I read it: buy invitation cards. There will be no texting, emailing or phoning. We are talking old-fashioned formal paper invitations and not cheap ones from the pound shop either. I’ll want to see a receipt and proof of where you bought them. You can write them out too, in your best calligraphy, gold in
k please. You can also address and send them, first class or by courier if the post office has a strike planned. Arrange for a gazebo to be either purchased or hired and set up, a big one, in fact several, we’ll fancy them up. Camelot will be nothing on our garden when I’ve finished draping silks and satins. We also need a paddling pool a decent sized one with straight sides to go under a gazebo so the little ones can splash around without risk of getting sunburned. Book a bouncy castle, just a small one and we’ll also need some more garden chairs.
“Is that everything then?” I glared at him over the top of his handwritten instruction manual. Of course it wasn’t. My to do list was the tip of an iceberg list, an expensive one. There was the guest list, the food list, the drinks list and the gifts to give list. I lost all composure at that point.
“GIFTS TO GIVE LIST! WHAT GIFTS TO GIVE LIST?”
“Calm down. It’s just another term for party bags.” He rubbed a soothing hand over my thigh. “You can’t expect people to come to a fancy function and go away without a memento.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t, Tarn,” he rapped my knuckles with his pen, “don’t be so tight-fisted. It’ll be a few little bits and pieces that’s all.”
“Bits and pieces of what?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Make me a cocktail would you, love, while I have a rake around on the web to see what’s out there by way of trinkets.”
Two hours later he put me in the picture with regard to his chosen trinkets. He'd discovered a sumptuous website that specialised in hand decorated Chinese fripperies and at a very cheap price so there was no need for me to break out in a miser’s sweat at the thought of parting with too much brass. (The cheeky little toad)
He’d ordered waxed paper and bamboo sun parasols in a variety of colours and designs with matching hand fans for lady guests along with some Chinese lanterns to hang around the garden because they were very pretty and very darling. He couldn’t quite make up his mind about gifts for the men. It was a choice between key rings with oriental good luck symbols or cufflinks. What did I think?
What did I think? I told him. I thought he was going over the top and spending far too much money that’s what I thought and perhaps a garden party wasn’t such a good idea after all.
He gave me the cat from Shrek eyes and an impassioned plea. “Please don’t spoil this for me. We need something special something fun that people will talk about for weeks afterwards, something better than Teddy has ever dreamed up, and something to make up for our horrible holiday. Tell you what, as a compromise I’ll drop the gifts for the male guests, seeing as most of them will be dressed as ladies thus qualifying them for a parasol and fan. Please, Tarn. I really want this.”
I capitulated as he laid a seductive hand on the erogenous zone of my inner thigh. After all life is short and good times are something to be encouraged and savoured. The die was cast.
Over the coming days we plotted and planned and sent out posh invitations for the Tarn and Twinkles Grand Summer Garden Party and got an enthusiastic response. People were ready for an event.
During the run up to the party there were moments when I much regretted saying yes, such as when he called me at work during a meeting to discuss whether we ought to use paper table covers and napkins or cloth ones, and then there was the question of colour. Should they match the flowers or contrast?
On another occasion he called me at work, during a meeting, to discuss whether we should hire a classical musical quartet to provide background ambience.
Then there was the day I came home from work, after a tough meeting, to find him happily discussing our 'catering requirements' with a couple of posh Sloane Ranger type women who said ‘yah’ after every other word and who looked like they catered for the crowned heads of Europe. A glance at their price list confirmed this suspicion. Only royalty or celebrities could afford them. One of them already had hold of a deposit cheque and from the look on her face it was clear if I wanted it back I’d have to prise it from her cold dead hands.
We had words after they left. The plan had been that we would meet our own 'catering requirements' with a lot of help from my mother and aunt Helen. So what had changed?
A quiche tragedy had occurred and decided him on his course of action. Self-catering was too much hassle and too unpredictable. Anything could go wrong. Anyway, knowing my aunt Helen, her contribution to the feast would be egg and cress in white bread. It wouldn't do. It really wouldn't do at all.
Brushing aside slurs on my aunt's egg and cress sandwiches, which I rather like, I demanded details of this quiche tragedy. What had happened?
There was no need for me to get excited. It was just a small accident. He'd already arranged for a glazier to come out and replace the kitchen window. He was due anytime now.
Glazier? A bloody glazier! I hurried into the kitchen to survey the damage and then reiterated a demand for clarification regarding the ‘small accident.’
In short he'd had a brat attack when a quiche he had made failed to turn out as expected. It was runny in the middle. Further cooking to set the eggs made the pastry hard. Disgusted with itself the quiche had then thrown itself out of his hands and through the window. He had tried to stop it, but the eggs in it were obviously still running and it was too fast for him.
In other words he had hurled it in temper whereupon it hit the kitchen window and exited leaving a huge hole, not because the pastry was hard, but because it was still in the baking tin when it was frisbeed across the kitchen.
I was most vexed with him. To my mind he needed to be made aware of my vexation and by more than verbal means. He deserved a smacked arse and he was going to get one. The arrival of the glazier delayed the carrying out of the sentence. Thirty-five minutes later the evening sunshine was streaming through the newly replaced windowpane. I paid the chatty glazier what seemed an inordinate amount of money for a sheet of glass and a gobbet of putty and saw him out.
Jonathan was in the living room watching Hollyoaks on telly and no doubt hoping the time lapse had dissipated my intent to discipline him. It hadn’t. Grasping his hand I hauled him up off the sofa and ignoring his protests lead him back to the scene of his crime where I’d set out a chair ready to sit on and carry out the sentence.
After pulling down his shorts I bent him over my knee and spanked his bottom hard for his destructive temper and for not consulting with me prior to bringing in caterers, expensive caterers. How many more discussions were we going to have to have about his ruinous temper and reckless spending? He was going to bankrupt us. He was a naughty, naughty man and if he didn’t behave I was going to cancel the party.
He was tearfully contrite afterwards, apologising for his bad temper and for hiring caterers without asking me. It was just he wanted everything to be perfect. We kissed cuddled and made up.
In the end I suppose it was all to the good. Having caterers did free us from a major source of work and stress, at least as far as Twinks was concerned. As he’d said he just wanted everything to be perfect. There's no in between with him, no making do. The quiche he had made would probably have been fine, he's a good cook, but because it didn't exactly fit the picture in his head he had lost his rag and vented.
I put my foot down and kept it down with regard to a musical quartet. We had a perfectly good CD player and sound system and a varied collection of music. It was enough.
The party took place yesterday. He who usually has to be prised from between the sheets was out of bed by four in the morning and back in it by five past four. I told him it was going to be a long enough day without him challenging the sun to a rising contest. I issued a threat. If his arse parted company with the mattress before six-thirty at the earliest I would colour it his least favourite shade of scarlet.
I was nervous about how things would turn out. Twinks had set a lot of store on everything being picture perfect. I dreaded it falling short of his expectations. My anxiety proved unfounded. It was as near perfect as a t
hing can be. The hysteria and sleepless nights he had suffered as he fussed and fretted over arrangements were vindicated.
The sun shone from a clear blue sky. The caterers ‘yah’ did us proud by supplying a feast fit for kings and queens. Family and friends turned up attired in their most elegant and finest. There was not a baggy shirt or a pair of faded jeans in sight, mainly because Twinks had hidden all mine and I had no choice but to don more sartorial wear in the form of a white dress shirt over black suit pants.
He dithered for days over what to wear and in the end went for a mixed boy girl look. He wore a plain pink sundress and a pair of floral patterned wedged heel sandals, but without any other feminine additions such as breast inserts, wig or makeup other than a touch of mascara and lip-gloss and sparkly purple nail polish on fingers and toes. I liked it. It was a perfect blend of Jonathan and Stardust. He looked gorgeous.
The souvenir parasols and fans brought squeals of delight and pleasure from the recipients and added a further touch of glamour and exotic colour to the garden.
Teddy turned a shade of jade when he arrived on scene, but recovered and graciously congratulated Twinkles on an impressive do. Twinkles graciously accepted the air kiss and compliment and in his turn graciously congratulated Teddy on his outfit, “gorgeous blouse, mauve silk is so you, Teddy darling, and the pencil skirt makes you look slimmer.”
Maurice had opted for male attire and looked leanly elegant in a dark blue tuxedo. Sticking his hands in his pocket he gave me a glum look and said his life would now be hell with Teddy trying to find a way of trumping Twinks. He only hoped the Albert bloody Hall and The Philharmonic Orchestra weren't up for hire. I gave him a sympathetic hug and a large drink. I felt for him, I really did, but hastily evaded his wandering hands as they attempted to feel me. I prefer him when he’s in drag. His hands are less inclined to wander when he’s wearing a dress.
Pouring myself a generous glass of champagne before it all got snaffled I wandered around the garden, greeting, watching and listening to people. This year has seen a lot of changes and a lot of upsets. In some respects the garden party felt like a review of the year, a coming together of many of the participants in events.
