by Swan, Tarn
We received a weirdo letter on Monday morning. It had a typewritten envelope, but the letter itself was composed of words cut from newspapers and magazines and pasted onto plain paper. Very time consuming I would think, all that cutting and pasting. Some people really need to get a proper hobby, or a life. It read: ‘for the wages of sin is death.’ Twinks said he’d heard that the wages of sin could be quite lucrative if you worked for the right people and he’d once considered a career in the porn industry himself…he could have played a sexy horny twink called Twinks.
Being openly gay and living with Twinkles means that I’m not unused to encountering prejudice. It happens from time to time and I’ve learned to brush it off to a large extent, but the letter worried me because coming in the wake of the graffiti on the fence incident it had a hint of a hate campaign starting up about it. This seemed to be confirmed when we came home on Monday evening to find that someone had posted dog dirt through the letterbox (mind you that’s not a first by any means) Twinkles was really upset, especially as he was first through the door and trod in the disgusting stuff. It was a swine to get off his pink boots. Being targeted by a nutcase certainly wasn’t high on our New Year wish list. I’m just hoping it will be a short campaign.
21st January 2005:
Devil’s Work
We got another anonymous letter this morning, oh lucky, lucky us. It read: ‘Homosexuality is the work of unclean spirits, yay, and the devil himself!’ Well, as Twinkles said, everyone has the right to make a career choice, even the devil and spirits with no sense of personal hygiene. Despite trying to make light of it, he was upset by the letter, leaving his breakfast uneaten. My appetite went a similar way, but I was angry more than upset. I felt like our private space was being invaded and it wasn’t a nice feeling. I asked Twinkles if he thought his grandfather could be responsible for the letters, though the idea of a man in his late seventies cutting and pasting anonymous hate mail to send to his only grandson seemed almost too bizarre to contemplate. Twinks said that while his grandfather was a bastard of the first order, he wasn’t stupid. Surely he knew he’d be the first person we’d suspect of sending such letters, and anyway, when it came to being vicious and nasty the old pig preferred to do it to his victim’s face, so he could enjoy their pain and humiliation at first hand.
I shoved the nasty little note in a drawer along with the other one. If they persist we’ll have to consider reporting the matter to the police, though Twinkles isn’t too keen on the idea. He says we being who we are mean they won’t treat it with any kind of respect or seriousness. I queried whether it wasn’t he who was being a tad prejudiced there, pointing out that the police now had a better attitude and there was even a Gay Police Association. He claimed the GPA are fictitious and are in fact a bunch of straight men and women who are trundled out once a year for the London Gay Pride March in exchange for a bonus in their wages. I said he had no right to complain about the attitude of the police, not with that attitude. He said that when transvestites were allowed to become WPC’S and walk the beat dressed in high heels and evening dress then he might revise his attitude. I threw a cushion at him; sometimes it’s the only thing to do.
We’re going out later this evening to visit friends, namely my secretary Karen, who is on maternity leave and her husband Paul. They’ve recently had their first child, or at least Karen has. Paul was at the birth, but apparently fainted at the crucial moment. He needed more gas and air than she did, as well as two paper sutures in a head wound. Twinkles nearly wet himself laughing when he heard. He can’t wait to get round there and rib Paul about it. Twinkles hasn’t had much to do with babies and neither have I, but I at least know enough to realise that a two week old baby boy won’t be up to playing with the remote control pink Barbie sports car that Twinks bought for him today. He’s decided to wear standard jeans and t-shirt attire for the visit. Karen is breast-feeding and he fears that wearing a frock and falsies might encourage the baby to believe he has something to offer in the way of milk and attempt to latch onto them. I told him it was highly unlikely, unless he wore his falsies outside his dress and even then any discerning baby would be able to tell the difference between false boobs and the real thing. He took offence at that and claimed I’d insulted his feminine assets and questioned their validity. He wants to take one of them so he can compare it with one of Karen’s, to see how it matches up to the real thing. I’ve told him that he’s doing no such thing and to be on the safe side I’ve confiscated his breasts and hidden them. I’ve also told him that he’s not to leer over Karen’s shoulder when she’s feeding the baby. He says he’s going to ask her if he can have a suck because he’s heard that breast milk is full of vitamins and can rejuvenate the complexion. I’ve told him that if he dares make such an embarrassing request I’ll rejuvenate the complexion on his arse and give it a very rosy glow.
22nd January 2005:
The Queen Gets Broody
God help me! Twinkles is broody. As I write, I kid ye not, he’s sitting on the sofa with a cushion shoved up the front of his t-shirt reading a book of baby names while waiting for the polish on his toenails to dry. It’s all because of the trip to see Karen and Paul’s new son. Twinkles was a tad uncertain at first. When we arrived the baby was in the midst of having his nappy changed and not happy about it. Twinkles clutched my arm and pulled a horrified face asking how something so tiny could make so much noise and smell so foul, but the moment the baby’s miniature hand curled around his finger he was utterly besotted. None of us could get a look in after that, he’d bonded big time. I think he would have had a shot at breast-feeding if Karen had let him. As yet, due to parental disagreement, the baby is unnamed, he’s just ‘the baby’ hence Twinkles interest in the book of names. He keeps phoning Karen with suggestions, every other of which is Jonathan.
We went shopping at the retail park last evening and he dragged me into Mothercare, ostensibly to buy something for the baby, but, as I soon discovered, his real motive was to check out the maternity wear. It was really rather embarrassing. He was not at all impressed with what was on offer and despite my protests asked to see the manageress immediately. Holding up a huge bra and a smock thing, he loudly demanded an explanation as to why, why, WHY it was assumed that being with child robbed a person of all taste and fashion sense and he was surprised the human race hadn’t died out altogether if being pregnant meant you had to wear such hideous creations. He then dramatically burst into tears, telling the bemused manageress that he was sorry, it was just his hormones kicking in and he couldn’t help it. The moment he started to handle the nipple shields and breast pumps I insisted we leave.
He wants us to have a baby and be a family. I’ve told him that the chances of us being allowed to adopt a baby are very, very slim. God knows they’d be slim if we were a ‘straight’ gay couple, let alone the way we are. At best we might be able to foster an older child, possibly a teenager. He doesn’t want a teenager, had I ever met a teenager, they were frigging terrifying not to mention dangerous. He wants a nice little baby and what kind of heartless man puts obstacles in the way of his partner having a child. After all he’s not getting any younger, his biological clock is ticking, it’s up to me to help him have a child before the alarm goes off. He’s walking up and down the room now, with one hand supporting the underside of the cushion and the other held to the small of his back in imitation of a pregnant woman with backache. When he gets an idea into his head he really goes with it. I get the feeling it’s going to be a long, long weekend.
23rd January 2005:
Breaking Glass
I got one hell of a shock just moments after completing yesterday’s journal entry. I was closing down my computer while discussing with Twinks whether or not Karen would consider giving the baby a girls name in addition to a boys just in case he turned out to be transgender. I said Karen might possibly consider it, especially if under the influence of drink, but Paul definitely wouldn’t. At that precise moment a house brick exp
loded through the living room window. Fortunately we have horizontal blinds at the window, which helped shorten the brick’s trajectory and prevented a good proportion of the broken glass spraying directly into the room. Even so, because my computer desk is in the bay alcove, I was showered with glass and sustained a fairly deep cut to my cheek. I was lucky not to be hit by the brick itself. Twinkles was physically unhurt, but upset doesn’t begin to describe his reaction. He was utterly distraught, especially when he saw the blood running down my face. Only pure rage stopped him hitting the deck like a bag of hammers, as he usually does when he sees a lot of blood. We both darted outside but there was no one in sight. I called the police. Twinks was still in floods of tears when they arrived. He can’t help being sensitive and emotional, it’s the way he is. The female officer was brilliant, she had a look at my face, patched me up and advised me to have it properly seen to at the hospital, then she made Twinkles some tea and sat talking to him while I gave details to her partner. By the time they left Twinkles had supplied her with details of the nail colour he was wearing and given her advice on how to apply her eye shadow so it didn’t crease.
I told the male officer about the anonymous letters, the graffiti and the dog dirt. He asked if we could think of anyone who might bear us a grudge. Twinkles gave a fine snort and said it might be easier to say who didn’t bear two cohabiting gay blokes, one of whom was a cross dresser, a grudge. I had to tell them about Twinkles’ family and I also mentioned the flower incident, but very discreetly, so Twinks didn’t hear. They said they’d make enquiries and get back to us.
Once they’d gone I phoned someone to come and board up the window until we could get a glazier, then told Twinkles I was going to casualty to have my cheek looked at, as it was beginning to bleed through the dressing that the WPC had put on it. He wanted to go with me, which was sweet, but I said no because in my opinion he was stressed out enough and didn’t need to be sitting around in casualty for hours getting more stressed. Besides there had to be someone home when they came to board the window up. I told him that I would call mum to come and keep him company and he was to have a nice hot bath and concentrate on calming down. He said he was calm, thank you very much and stubbornly put his coat on, even though his hands were shaking so much he could barely fasten it. Would I allow him to go to the hospital alone…he didn’t frigging think so. I was disregarding his need to be with me. I was a selfish, arrogant pig, always assuming I knew best. Fair enough. Putting my arms around him I humbly apologised for my arrogant piggishness then called mum and explained what had happened. She was furious. I didn’t know she knew words like that. She agreed to come over and wait in for the window boarder while we attended the hospital saying she quite understood that Twinks would want to go with me and sometimes I could be so insensitive, just like my father.
The nurse at the hospital applied two paper sutures to my cheek and a tetanus booster shot to my left buttock. Twinkles called Lulu to say he wasn’t going to be out that night and why. By the time we arrived home the house was gradually filling up with friends from the PP, most of who were fully kitted in preparation for the customary Saturday night revels. They brought flowers, wine, chocolates, solidarity and sympathy along with colourful outfits and eye-watering clouds of perfume. I was touched, and not just emotionally. I’m sure Big Mary has a thing for me, because he never missed an opportunity to place a sympathetic hand on my knee. There’s something disconcerting, if not surreal, about being touched up by a fully bearded, sixteen stone bloke wearing blue eye shadow, a pink curly perm wig and a tight spangled red frock. I think it’s called hard drag. I must admit I do struggle at times to think of Big Mary as a she when she is very obviously a he (namely one Jerry Patterson, electrician of this parish)
My mother was in her element saying it was her idea of heaven to be in a room full of lovely men who were more interested in fashion and make up than beer and football. Twinkles was also in his element. I watched him floating around dressed in a pale blue ruffled peignoir, drinking wine, nibbling chocolates and thoroughly enjoying being the centre of attention. He caught my eye, gave one of his sexy little winks and blew me a kiss, which gave me a rather pleasurable twinge in the groin region I have to say. Love them or hate them, transvestites and drag queens are a unique bunch and you can’t ignore them, they won’t allow you to for a start. They’re brave, bitchy, loud, vulgar, sweet, glamorous, theatrical, rude, terrifying and hysterically funny and I’m proud to count them as friends. By the time the unexpected brick-through-the-window-party was over I felt far more optimistic about humanity than I had shortly after the aforementioned brick had violated the cosy domesticity of the home I share with Twinkles.
24th January 2005:
Stud
Twinks is still broody. He bought a pregnancy testing kit on Sunday morning, which he strategically placed on the bathroom window ledge. I told him that it might be the Sabbath, but miracles of that magnitude just didn’t happen. He said it was to remind me of my duty and with that in mind he’d looked up a few ladies on the Internet who might be willing to sleep with a fussy, bossy, slightly paunchy gay guy and bear his child at a reasonable cost. I was absolutely outraged especially when I checked the sites he’d been on and saw the prospective candidates he’d picked out for me to impregnate. For a moment I thought he’d mistakenly gone onto a veterinary site. Rough doesn’t begin to describe them, I’m sorry to say this, but they looked as if they’d mate with anyone for a can of Chum, a rubber bone and a walk in the park. I stated in crystal clear terms that I was not a stud and I was not going to put anyone in the pudding club, and neither was he. Pointing at the board that was covering the space where our window used to be I told him that with everything that was going on now was NOT the time to be thinking about having a family and we’d discuss it properly in due course. Not that I think for a minute he’s serious about it, it’s just one of his five minute obsessions. He went back to bed, claiming I’d induced a headache with my harsh ways, which translates as him sulking. I left him to it, opting for spending a few minutes in front of the hall mirror reassuring myself that I didn’t have a paunch.
We had Sunday lunch at mum’s house arriving to find Priscilla the Preacher there, or at least the male aspect of her, Eric Winn. We didn’t recognise her at first, having never seen him/her dressed in male attire. Priscilla is a relatively new patron of the PP and is only just beginning to make a social life (after his divorce) where his female aspect is ‘out’ and prominent. He’d been to visit one of his daughters and had dropped in on mum on the way home and she had invited him to stay for lunch. Twinkles reckons Priscilla and mum have got a thing going on. I told him he had an overactive imagination and warned against asking too many personal questions. He loves poking his nose into other people’s business. I felt a bit left out after lunch when they all thumbed through the Spring/Summer edition of the Littlewoods catalogue doing an assassination job on most of the clothes, though Twinkles did see a pair of sandals he liked. Priscilla quite liked a sleeveless blouse and mum commented on a nightdress, which Priscilla agreed was very fetching. I’m not sure I liked the look in his eyes when he said it. It made me wonder whether he was thinking he could borrow it if mum bought it, or whether Twinks was right and they had a thing going on and he was picturing her in it. Twinkles then showed a photo of Karen and Paul’s still unnamed baby that he had in his wallet. Priscilla started showing photos of his two little grandchildren and mum dragged out the photo album of pictures of my sister and me as children, at which point I began to flick through the abandoned catalogue. I made a mental note of one item that caught my eye, ‘Six Second Abs, crunch work out machine.’ I might get mum to order me one on the quiet.
There’s been no news from the police regarding our brick attack. Maybe Twinks is right and they’ll just brush it off as another random homophobic incident not worth wasting time on?
25th January 2005:
Steven
It’s late, but I can’t slee
p. We received devastating news today. Our friend Steven, Brian’s beloved partner, passed away, we were shocked and yet we shouldn’t have been because Stevie had been HIV positive for over ten years and had full-blown AIDS for just over two of them. We knew he was poorly. He was in hospital battling pneumonia, a legacy of the cold he’d caught at Christmas, but he’d battled pneumonia before and won. We believed he would do so again, that it wasn’t his time yet and the drugs would keep him going a bit longer. They didn’t, not this time and he died with Brian beside him holding his hand. He was thirty-four years old. We don’t usually go to the PP at the beginning of the week, but we went this evening to support Brian because he wanted to publicly break the news that Stevie had died and get it over with, so that news trickled down the vine and he wouldn’t have to keep saying the dread words again and again.
