by Swan, Tarn
When I collected him on Saturday evening he was as white as milk and looked decidedly unwell. Concern turned to vexation when he took careful pleasure in letting me know the lunch I’d made for him had gone uneaten. He’d worked solidly all day without a break on the slice of toast he’d had for breakfast. He has a tendency to low blood pressure and slightly low blood sugar, which increases his risk of fainting. Being hungry exacerbates the risk still further. The implication of course was that him being unwell was my fault, because cruel tyrant that I am, I’d withheld money so he couldn’t buy anything to eat. It was a calculated attempt to manipulate me and I didn’t care for it one jot. Once we were in the car I took the sandwiches he’d left stuffed in his coat pocket and placing them on his lap told him to eat them. If there were so much as a crumb remaining by the time we got home he’d be one very sorry brat. I’d bend him over the kitchen table and turn his backside into a grill so hot the entire neighbourhood would be queuing to roast seasonal chestnuts on it. He did as he was told. By the time we reached home he was looking a lot better…if you discounted the sulky slant to his mouth.
Lulu was home before us. He’d bought a new frock and was trying it on. I inwardly groaned. Such a sight was guaranteed to make Twinks feel even more discontented. Lu, pleased with his purchase and seeking approbation gave us a twirl and asked what we thought. I said it was lovely, a very nice colour. Twinkles said he thought Lulu should spend less time buying tasteless rags and more time looking for a frigging flat, because he was sick of him being under his feet. Lu, naturally enough, was hurt. I told him that Twinkles didn’t mean it for a second. He was still upset from yesterday and had been rushed off his feet at work and wasn’t feeling well. Lulu said he didn’t know how I lived with the moody little mare and I deserved a bloody medal for services over and above the call of gay duty.
The moody little mare trotted off upstairs and began dragging dresses out of his wardrobe left right and centre, while moaning about having nothing to go out in. I told him I had no desire to go out and socialise with a bad tempered, ill-mannered partner who didn’t have a civil word for anyone. Good, because he didn’t want to go out with me anyway. It was Saturday night, his pathetic ‘pocket money’ was due so he’d go out on his own and have a lot more fun. I pointed out that it was traditional for naughty boys to be grounded and have their pocket money stopped into the bargain, so he could put everything back in the wardrobe. I was a beast and he didn’t know how the hell he’d lived with me for so long. He deserved an endurance medal. After dinner he said he’d sooner arrange to have himself gift wrapped and delivered to the National Front’s Headquarters than spend the evening with me. He took refuge in our bedroom.
I left him to it and after giving Lu a lift to the PP I spent the evening downstairs writing out Christmas cards to take into work and wrapping the gifts I’d bought for my staff. Then I made out a shopping list for the food we would need over Christmas. We’re hosting this year. We went to mum’s last Christmas so it was our turn anyway, and of course with her being postoperative she can’t do much. Priscilla is also joining us, as are Brian and Lulu. Lu’s parents are going to an elderly relatives house for dinner. Brian was invited to join Steven’s family for the festivities, but declined. He said it would be too painful, there were too many memories there and he was just too raw to be able to cope. Steven’s father in particular is finding it difficult to come to terms with the death of his son and Brian thinks they’ll just end up feeding each other’s grief and bringing everyone else down. He talked about spending the day alone. I told him that Steven would have hated the very thought and he agreed and said he’d be pleased to join us.
Once the writing and wrapping was done and dusted I made some coffee and took one up to Twinkles along with a mince pie. He’s quite partial to mince pies and I was hoping my offering might help him remember that he’s quite fond of me. He was reclining in bed watching television wearing his new Cher wig and some glittery false eyelashes. I paid him a compliment, which he repaid with sour commentary. If I thought flattery would get me into his knickers I was sadly mistaken. I plonked the pie and coffee on his bedside table and told him I’d had just about enough of his rotten attitude. He yelled ‘DITTO’ and slammed a fist into the mince pie. It was an action he regretted. He used his right hand, the one he recently cut and while its healed it’s still tender and it didn’t appreciate being used as a jackhammer. He let out a yelp of pain and I of course got the blame for his hand hurting, ‘what kind of sadistic swine brings his partner a mince pie with a hard crust when he might have judged from his mood that he was more likely to hit it than eat it.’ He then burst into tears and lay across the bed sobbing it was too hard, the punishment I’d given him was too hard and he couldn’t do it.
I told him he had no choice and the sooner he resigned himself to it then the better it would be for both of us. I was not going to retract my decision, no matter how stressful he made things. He wailed about not being able to get me the present he wanted to get me because of the limits I’d set and how he kept seeing things he really liked, such as some lovely baubles that only cost a few pounds, but he still couldn’t afford, because he’d used up his allowance. I made no comment other than to rub his back until he calmed down.
He was all the better for having good cry. He apologised about the mince pie and asked for a replacement, which he promised not to abuse and while I was getting it could I freshen up his coffee?
When I returned to the bedroom I had to laugh because he’d taken his false eyelashes, which had come adrift with his tears, and stuck them just above his nipples so they looked like glittering bushy brows over eyes, and he’d drawn a smile under his naval with an eyeliner pencil. The day ended better than it started.
We spent Sunday decorating the house and dressing our Christmas trees. Because we can never agree on how to dress the tree we buy one each. We tossed a coin to see who got first choice of location. I called heads and won. I chose the sitting room leaving him with the dining room. He said he would have chosen it anyway, as the dining room is cooler and his fir tree would last longer than mine, so there! He can be very hoity toity when he wants to be.
I’m fairly traditional when it comes to decorating my tree. I like thick ropes of sparkling tinsel and lots of different colour baubles, ornaments and lights and a star on the top. Twinkles of course goes for the designer approach. This year the gay guru’s, Colin and Justin, were advising just two colours to be used in shades most complimentary to the room the tree was to be displayed in. Thus his tree was an opulent production in shades of cream and maroon with heavy clusters of baubles and ribbons (no naff tinsel) and on the top was the drag queen of all angels. She was wearing a sumptuous dress of maroon and cream velvet that he’d made himself, along with false eyelashes and a hairdo that Dolly Parton would be proud of. It did look lovely in an over the top kind of way. His comment on my tree was that it looked old fashioned and reactionary and thus reflected my personality perfectly. Lulu, who had been banned from helping Twinkles after hanging a bauble on the wrong branch, commented that the angel looked a bit like Natalie. Twinkles accused him of jealous bitchiness. Pot calling the kettle black was a cliché that sprang readily to mind.
I’d better scoot. I’m getting the evil eye from my very own angel. We’re going out this evening and I’m not ready yet. We’ve been invited to a Christmas soiree at Teddy and Maurice’s house. It’s a sophisticated cocktail party, so I’m told, and therefore I have to dress up and not down. There’s to be no slopping along in my usual old jeans and a casual shirt. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the evening, but you never know I might just enjoy it and they do usually provide very nice refreshments.
23rd December 2005:
Hell On Trolley Wheels
What a hectic week. It’s been one thing after another. The good news is I’ve finished work for the holidays. I dropped Twinks at the Jewellers this morning and then went grocery shopping. It was hell on trolley wheel
s. People turn into complete maniacs at this time of year. Anyone would think the shops were going to be closed for a month. I was glad to get home and get the kettle on. Twinkles and I actually intended to do our main food shop last Wednesday evening, but we had a run-in with our new neighbours and aborted the mission. We had Dominic with us. We were looking after him because Karen and Paul were going to a Christmas dinner dance. He was in the trolley seat. Twinkles was pushing and of course paying far more attention to the baby than to where he was going. It was lovely actually and most people were smiling, as they heard Dominic’s throaty little chuckles in response to Twinkles’ chatter and funny faces. He steered cart and baby towards the confectionary aisle while I went off in search of more mundane fare. I was reaching for a jar of pickle when I heard a commotion. Twinkles had accidentally bumped someone with the trolley and they weren’t too pleased about it. He apologised, but the person was disinclined to accept the apology. Why…because it was Ray Brownlow. He accused Twinkles of doing it on purpose. Twink retorted that if he had intended to run something wheeled into him on purpose, it wouldn’t be a supermarket trolley, it would be a double decker bus with blades on the wheels. Ray’s wife tried to pull him away, but he wasn’t having it. Poking a lardy finger at Dom he demanded to know what kind of parents would leave a male baby with two filthy queers. The implication being we were paedophiles. I was disgusted and tried to manoeuvre trolley, baby and partner away from Brownlow, telling the former to ignore the latter. He didn’t. Shaking off my hand he furiously stood his ground. He told Brownlow that if it was true that ignorance was bliss he must be the happiest man on the planet. A fair comment I thought, but then Twinks had to go overboard by telling Brownlow what his ‘problem’ was, i.e. he had a desire to be penetrated by a real man and just didn’t have the guts to admit it. In short he was jealous of our open sexuality. I thought Brownlow was going to punch him. His hands curled into fists and he took a step forwards. A security guard made a timely appearance and asked us to either quietly go about our shopping or leave the store, as we were causing a disturbance. It was humiliating. I was in no mood to continue shopping after that and we came home.
Once home we discussed the matter. I made it clear that he was not to respond to Brownlow in any way, nor was he to deliberately bait him. The man is a homophobic bully and he’s just looking for an opportunity to crush what he somehow feels threatened by. I then sent Twinkles to bed for ignoring my instruction in the supermarket. He didn’t dare argue. He’s on a very short rein at the moment on account of what he did on Monday night at Maurice and Teddy’s Christmas cocktail party. He was a very, VERY bad boy!
I’ll have to stop there. I’ve got visitors. It’s my dad and he’s got my adorable baby sister with him.
23rd December 2005:
Houston We Have Lift Off
Dad didn’t stay long. He was dropping off Christmas presents. Poor dad, he looked shell-shocked with that gaunt look that goes with sleep deprivation. Janet is colicky and isn’t sleeping much at all. He’d brought her out so that at least Gill could have a nap. I cradled the baby in my arms, marvelling at how tiny she is and the fact she’s my sister. Speaking of sister’s, dad like the rest of us is disappointed that Maryanne isn’t coming home for Christmas this year. She’s spending the holiday with her boyfriend Callum in Scotland. Dad is keen for her to see Janet properly. He’s sent photos and things over the web, but it’s not the same as real life contact. He also demanded to know when that man of mine was going to make the effort to see the new cygnet addition to the Swan family. I’m afraid Twinkles still hasn’t seen Janet. He always finds an excuse not to accompany me when I visit and the last twice that dad and Gill have called on us, he’s managed to be out. It’s a funny thing, but much as Gill seemingly dislikes Twinkles she’s also hurt and disappointed that he’s made no effort to see her baby. I think it makes her feel unaccepted. I get the feeling that belonging is an important concept to her. Her own family is small. She’s close to her mother, but she never really knew her dad. He died when she was six. She has an older brother, but he’s lost contact with his sister and mother. They don’t know where he is and he doesn’t so much as send a card at Christmas. Some men have no need of family ties. They leave the nest and home becomes a distant land never to be re-visited. Knowing how much Twinkles dotes on Dominic also adds to Gill’s hurt. I’m not happy about the situation either. I think Twinkles is being selfish, to me as much as anyone else. I promised dad I would see what I could do over Christmas. I’m pretty sure that Twinks will be fine once he sees Janet in person and as a person instead of a something that disrupted his plans.
Let me get back to last Monday evening and what happened at Teddy and Maurice’s cocktail party (or the doc’s in frocks serving cocks and dips along with little pricks on sticks to other jock’s in frocks, party, as Lulu and Twinks renamed it in a Martini moment) I thought there was going to be trouble before we even got there. Twinkles was all made up and wigged and under-garmented, but couldn’t decide what dress to wear. He was getting decidedly fractious about it. I knew what was behind the indecision. Lulu was wearing a brand new dress and he had cheerfully informed us that Kevin had also bought a new dress for the party. It went without saying that Teddy and Maurice would be wearing new frocks. According to my beloved he would be the only transvestite on earth without a new dress and though he was trying hard not to be resentful, he was. None of his dresses were good enough. They were the wrong colour, the wrong style, they made his bum look big, and his boobs look lost. He tried to wheedle and whinge me into allowing him to wear the infamous six hundred pound dress. He’d leave the price tags on so it was still saleable, no one would ever know it had been worn. I said absolutely not and told him to drop the subject or there would be trouble. Most of his evening dresses have only been worn a few times; some have only been worn once. I saw nothing wrong in giving one of them another airing. I was sure no one would even notice it wasn’t new.
In the end he picked out a black, heavily sequinned affair that plunged front and back. It was also split to above the knee on one side revealing a good portion of black stocking and elegant black and gold high heels. He finished off with a choker composed of jet beads and a glamorous gold-fringed wrap, plus a black feather hair ornament. I told him he looked absolutely beautiful, and meant it. Lulu, good-hearted soul that he is, told Twinks he couldn’t ever recall seeing the dress before. It was gorgeous and made him look very Hollywood chic. Twinkles was pleased and in return told Lulu he looked lovely too, a bit like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Egos all stroked, I escorted two happy drag lads into a cab. Seeing as I was formally suited I must have looked like a gangster with his molls.
Teddy and Maurice (who I privately thought looked like Hinge and Bracket in their very elaborate ensembles) greeted us at the door with champagne cocktails. We dutifully air kissed and then dutifully admired the professionally dressed Christmas tree in the hall, before being led into the professionally decorated dining room where a professionally catered buffet was laid out for the delectation of all. There were no canned hot dog pricks on sticks here. It was all very Jamie Oliver in a black tie. My eardrums, practised at attending such gatherings, braced themselves as festive greetings were shrieked at glass bauble shattering levels.
Natalie immediately noticed Twinks’ dress wasn’t a new frock on the block and even named the occasion it had last been worn at. I could cheerfully have walloped her rump. The timely arrival of Big Mary stopped any would be verbal reprisals in their tracks. I wouldn’t say he was professionally dressed, not unless a professional pantomime dame had dressed him, but by God he was eye catching. He was bedecked in a frock designed to look like a Christmas tree complete with real flashing fairy lights. There was much fascinated speculation as to where and what he had them plugged into. Teddy almost had a fit. His face could have soured milk. He snootily informed BM that this was a proper cocktail party, a formal dress affair, not a fancy dress piss-take. BM,
who had clearly had a few drinks before arriving, told Teddy to stop acting like a gay virgin’s arse hole and loosen up.
To my annoyance Teddy monopolised Twinkles, dragging him around like an accessory while boasting, ‘really, Twinkles darling, once you’ve had pro’s in to decorate and cater you would never dream of doing it yourself ever again.’
I entertained myself by playing a mental game of Cluedo, which ended satisfactorily when I deduced that Teddy had been murdered in the lounge by yours truly using a professional designer as a cudgel.
Twinkles was the perfect audience, easily impressed…and easily made discontented. When I finally managed to detach him from Teddy for a few moments, he was already muttering about our Christmas decorations not being professional enough and getting in caterers to make Christmas Dinner.
