by Swan, Tarn
When the welcome peace turned to a weighted silence I began to fret about what he was fretting about. He spent Sunday evening morosely munching his way through the split bag of peanuts while flicking from channel to channel in the way that drives me mad. In the end I removed both the remote and the bag of peanuts from him. Judging from the rapidly degenerating air quality in the living room he'd had more than enough.
Pulling him on my lap I demanded he share the contents of his mind with me. He asked if I missed playing sports, as when he first met me I used to play hockey, five a side football, squash and dominoes. I pointed out that dominoes wasn't a sport as far as I knew and I'd only played it to please my grandfather and yes, sometimes I did miss playing sports, but I didn’t have time anymore.
He then fluttered his eyelashes and asked, semi-seriously, whether he had over-feminised my life. He also asked if I would like him to be more macho. Did I want him to take up hockey, or rugby, so we could run around a muddy field together every Sunday in male bonding fashion? I tried to picture Twinks playing field hockey or rugby, but failed and said no it wouldn't be necessary. Was I sure? Because he'd heard it was on the verge of becoming law for all gay femmes to play a contact sport in order to blend in with bona fide men. Failure to comply meant being shipped to the diamond mines of South Africa to work as slave labour underground, where they couldn't offend the sensibilities of their more acceptably butch, gay counterparts.
I told him I loved him the way he was and if he stopped talking long enough I would prove it. He said he wasn't sure if he could take penetrative sex, not after all the peanuts he'd eaten. It would be like blocking the safety valve on a pressure cooker and the resulting explosion would blow us both away in a manner neither of us would enjoy. I risked it anyway, once I stopped laughing.
The following morning he had an appointment at the hospital to check the progress of his arm. To his great relief, and mine, the bone was at long last fusing and the consultant said it looked unlikely it would need an operation to pin it. Twinkles decided he wanted a change of cast. He fancied a nice red one for Valentine’s Day to go with his costume. The consultant refused to even consider disturbing the arm just as it showed signs of healing and frostily reminded Mr Lane that the cast was not a fashion accessory, it was a medical aid.
Twinks was not suited and on the way home declared his intention of painting the cast red, demanding we stop off at B&Q to get some emulsion. I also frostily reminded Mr Lane that the cast was not a fashion accessory it was a medical aid. I added a postscript. If he did anything to interfere with its ability to remain an effective medical aid it wouldn't only be the cast that changed colour, it would be his backside, because I would turn it a shade of painful puce.
We got home to discover that after a long period of non-activity our hate mailer had revived their campaign and sent us a salutation likening us to a disease requiring eradication. It was a shock seeing the letter lying on the doormat when we opened the door, almost akin to receiving a physical blow. We’d allowed ourselves to believe it was all over. Twinkles summed it up in two words ‘bloody charming!’ The lulls make me wonder whether the person responsible works away for periods, maybe a long distance lorry driver or someone who works abroad or on the rigs?
The letter did nothing to enhance our respective moods, which were on a downturn. His because of his cast and mine on account of the fact that my eyes for several days past had been sore and gritty and seemed to be getting rapidly worse. We were apt to be ungracious with each other.
There was a message on the answer phone, an invitation from Teddy to make up a set and join him and Maurice at the Casino that evening. I don't like the Casino. I object to throwing good money away on the turn of a card or spin of the wheel. I immediately said no. Twinkles said he would go on his own. I pointed out that his allowance wouldn't be enough to cover the inflated cost of the drinks let alone buy chips to gamble with. He requested I give him some extra money seeing as his wage cheque had recently been paid into the bank. I refused. Once his percentage of the household costs had been taken out and a percentage towards settling his debts (recently increased by his Sunday shopping disaster) plus an amount to cover his allowance, there was barely anything left. The small amount left over was going towards getting him a new suit and some shirts for work, which he was in dire need of. It was not going to be frittered away at the gaming tables. I knew Teddy would be throwing money around and he'd insist on lending Twinkles money to throw around and Twinkles wouldn't be able to resist and he'd end up in yet more debt. I was not going to let it happen. I told him he couldn't go. He called me a miserable killjoy. I didn't care.
By early evening my eyelids felt as if they were lined with sandpaper, blinking was torture and so was Twinkles' voice on my irritated nerves. It kept up a running monologue with regard to what Teddy and Maurice had and the places they went, the subtext of course being a long drawn out complaint and whinge about what we didn't have and the places we didn't go, like the casino.
By the time dinner was over I'd had just about enough and when his T/M monologue turned to how they always ate from finest china, not cheap earthenware like us, I lost my battle to keep my temper. I sharply told him to shut up, as I was sick of the sound of his voice. It was grating on my nerves. I regretted the loss of temper immediately and the clumsy choice of words. Twinkles, looking deeply wounded, apologised for his grating voice. He said if it would make me happy he would do what his mother and grandfather had tried to force him to do and have elocution coaching in an effort to deepen it and make it less annoying. He then stormed out of the kitchen.
I quickly followed apologising for my ill temper. I explained that the repetitive nature of the subject matter was grating on me, not his voice as such. I was just tired of him nagging on about Teddy and Maurice. He ran upstairs and refused to speak another word to me all evening. Considering it was the eve of Valentine’s Day we were hardly the epitome of fond lovers.
I'll have to continue this entry later. Twinkles is bellowing for me. He obviously has a crisis.
23rd February 2006: Amour and Lust
Twinkles was indeed in crisis last night. In fact he was under siege. By the time I got downstairs he was kneeling on the kitchen table fearful for his personal safety, which was being threatened by a passion inflamed individual called Samson. It wasn't Twinks' person as such that was in mortal danger. It was his fluffy mules, which as far as he's concerned is much the same thing. Samson had fallen in love and lust with them on sight and was intent on having his evil way. To prove he wasn't exaggerating Twinkles cautiously lowered a foot to the floor. Samson immediately charged across the kitchen floor squealing with excitement and made a leap. Twinks hastily withdrew his leg, leaving poor Samson to skitter across the floor in a most undignified manner…his love unrequited. Samson by the way is a very large, hairy guinea pig and he'd obviously mistaken the fluffy pink mules for some kind of exotic breed of lady guinea pig.
When exactly did we acquire this amorous guinea pig? We didn't, not as such. We’re just taking care of him for Gabby. It's half term here and she and her parents have ventured south to Kent to visit Katie's sister for the week. We said we'd be happy to look after Gabby's guinea pig and her rabbit Delilah. They were the pets she got to replace the hamster that died in the summer. Twinks is fascinated with Samson who he compares to an animal kingdom drag queen with his wild big hair and theatrical squeals. He's been hankering after bringing the pets into the house all week because he’s worried the hutch they live in might be too cold and draughty in the sudden cold wet spell we're having. I pointed out that some people are less snugly housed than Samson and Delilah and besides, Frank had warned us not to let either of them indoors as they would chew everything in sight, as well as toilet everywhere. Twinkles had naughtily sneaked them indoors for a warm while I was busily tapping away on the laptop upstairs. As soon as he set Samson on the floor he had spotted his mules and leapt on them.
I relieved the sie
ge by putting Samson back in the hutch outside. There was no sign of Delilah in the kitchen. She had hopped off when Twinks was dancing around the kitchen yelling for me while trying to shake off Samson. She was easy enough to find, we just followed the trail of droppings she'd kindly left as a clue. They led us to where she was happily gnawing on one of my trainers near the front door. I made Twinks clean up the droppings while I reunited Delilah with her companion.
After doing his duty Twinkles put his arms around my neck and thanked me for saving his innocent mules from being brutally ravaged by a sex-crazed guinea pig. I fondled his buttocks and asked who would save him from being brutally ravaged by a sex-crazed me? He said he didn't know, but he'd fight for his sweet virtue every inch of the way, which wouldn't take long. He'd barely be out of breath. It took a few seconds for that to click in, by which time he was halfway up the stairs laughing his head off. I gave a bellow of outrage and headed after him.
I will get back to the events I was journaling before Samson went on his lust-fuelled rampage, but not now, because I've got to go out. My sister is paying a flying visit, one night only. She's doing a job in Newcastle and has taken a detour to visit mum. Twinkles and I are going over there for dinner. We’re looking forward to it.
1st March 2006: Mardi Gras
Last weekend was a busy one. The PP ran a Carnival theme in honour of the festival in Rio de Janeiro. Consequently I was knee deep in feathers and other paraphernalia as Twinkles put on the glamour. Poor mum. She ended up shattered after helping him make, adapt and alter his costumes and headdresses. We had artistic tantrums on Sunday afternoon when the wax fruit he wanted to use for his Carmen Miranda outfit proved too heavy for his headpiece. We ended up ringing around friends and family in pursuit of lighter plastic fruits. Karen, bless her, came up trumps. Her little niece Grace has a toy supermarket complete with plastic fruits and vegetables, which she borrowed on our behalf. They served the purpose beautifully. I told Twinkles it was appropriate that the fruits were the property of a three year old as he behaved like one himself at times. He maintained a dignified silence on the subject.
After a particularly exhausting exchange with him over the way he wanted a skirt to drape, mum took me to one side and asked why I couldn't have fallen for a nice, quiet ordinary homosexual instead of a fussy pussy tranny glamour queen. The pace was killing her.
The PP festivities culminated last evening in a Shrove Tuesday Mardi Gras event. Twinkles wore a fantastic Venetian style facemask, which he'd made himself from papier-mache. It's a work of art. He painted it in shades of ivory, metallic green and gold and trimmed it with glitter and faux gemstones. He then framed it with a twist of green velvet and plumes of peacock feathers. He looked gorgeous. I think I looked quite dashing too actually. I wore a matador style outfit and he'd made me a mask to hide behind painted in black and silver. It was a good evening, though Twinks is now feeling a bit flat after all the excitement and pondering on what to give up for Lent. Last year he gave up smoking, even though he has never actually smoked. He isn't even religious as such so isn't obliged to observe Lent anyway. He just has to be involved. He can't help himself. Only he isn't keen on the idea of giving up anything he really likes.
It was good to see Maryann last Thursday night and catch up on her news. Her visit lifted mum's spirits. The boyfriend who replaced Callum has now gone. He liked to have several girlfriends on the go at one and the same time. Maryann just isn't into polygamy, especially when it only works one way, or as she said, 'do I look like a lady Mormon, I don't think so!' Twinkles quip that she didn't look like a lady anything earned him a slap up the back of the head.
Alas, he got drunk. Despite knowing that Maryann can drink him under the table he will still try and match her drink for drink. He says drag queen honour demands he at least try to keep pace with her. I told Maryann that she drank far too much and she was a bad influence on Twinks. She told me I fussed far too much and how much she drank was her own affair, adding that someone had to be a bad influence on poor Twinkles. It couldn't be much of a laugh living with a puritan like me…all this while cradling Twinkles' head against her bosom, which he enjoyed as much as hearing her slag me off. There's something surreal about seeing your partner happily nestling between your sister's breasts.
By the time we got home that night he'd reached that horrible outpost of inebriation where everything spins at a rate of knots and standing upright becomes a legend you once read about. I had to lift him out of the car and carry him into the house while he clung to my neck whimpering that he was dying. I puritanically told him that I had no sympathy. Needless to say he had a hangover next morning, which of course was my fault seeing as Maryann is my sister. There's a kind of logic in there somewhere I'm sure.
To return to prior events, those I was in the midst of recording before sex maniac guinea pigs, visiting sisters and Mardi Gras got in the way...
On Valentine’s Day I awoke to find I couldn't open my eyes on account of them being glued together with sticky matter. I managed to prise them open enough to see my way to the bathroom and bathe away the crusts with warm water. The whites of my eyes were so bloodshot I looked like a debauched werewolf. I decided it would be sensible to pop to the chemist at the earliest opportunity and ask the pharmacist to recommend some drops or eyewash. I also decided it might be prudent to consult an optician to discuss computer glasses to help ease eyestrain.
First things first though. I went down to make breakfast and prepare a tray for Twinkles in honour of Valentine’s Day and to make up for being ratty with him the night before and hurting his feelings. By the time I got to bed that night he was asleep, so we didn't really get to make peace properly.
We have a couple of Valentine traditions. One is that we don't exchange signed cards by hand, we send cards to each other by post and in best romantic Valentine fashion we don't sign a name, we just write a little message or verse. Secondly, at Twinks insistence, we have a colour theme every year because he gets bored with the reds and pinks that always proliferate at this time of year. He reckons love comes in every colour, not just red and pink. The colour he'd chosen this year was blue, which meant our gifts had to reflect that colour.
I made up a tray with fresh coffee and croissants, put my gifts to him (wrapped in blue paper) on it along with the traditional floral love token, a single long stemmed rose, dyed blue in this case in keeping with the theme and took it upstairs. I awoke my princess with a kiss, which scared the crap out of him when he saw my red eyes. He thought the devil had come for him. We had a reconciliatory cuddle. I apologised for losing my temper and he apologised for nagging on about Teddy. He loved the rose and the chocolates and the Versace Baby Blue Jeans cologne I'd bought for him. He'd bought me a blue heart shaped helium filled balloon, which he tied to the foot of the bed, a bottle of Blue Nun wine and a blue movie. Actually it was copy of one of Lulu's, as his stingy allowance didn't run to buying new porn movies. I kissed his pout and said a copy was just fine and I looked forward to doing some interactive watching of it with him.
Sadly the discomfort in my eyes was such that it hampered my desire to take this years blue theme to its ultimate expression by doing something filthy to Twinkles there and then. The spirit was willing, but it was too distracted by the flesh to really concentrate on coming up with the goods lower down.
As soon as we'd breakfasted I got dressed in order to call at the chemist. The post arrived just as I was leaving the house and I opened the card addressed to me, grinning when I saw it. It was one of those designs adapted and mocked up from old photos and postcards. It showed a very stern and staid Edwardian gentleman in a military uniform and the caption 'Valentine...do you know what you DO to me? Do you know that my loins blaze when I see you in my fantasies!' It was signed: from someone who would love to blaze loins with you.
Twinkles had settled back under the duvet and was half asleep when I took his card up to him. Laying it on his pillow I kissed his cheek and told him I loved his c
ard and he could make my loins blaze anytime.
The pharmacist took one look at my eyes, crossed himself and said get thee to a qualified physician! He then began spraying some kind of air purifying solution around. It made me appreciate how biblical lepers must have gone felt. I phoned my surgery from the car and managed to get an appointment with the doctor by exaggerating my symptoms to the receptionist, who sees her main duty as keeping germ laden patients away from him. Living with Twinkles has honed up my ability to dramatise a situation. By the time I'd finished I'd not only alarmed the receptionist into telling me to come straight to the surgery, I'd frightened myself. I sounded like a rabbit in the latter stages of myximatosis. I called home to tell Twinks where I was going, but he didn't pick up so I assumed he'd fallen properly asleep and left a message on the answer machine.
The doctor diagnosed conjunctivitis and prescribed some antibiotic eye drops and eyewash. I got my prescription filled and headed home. I arrived to find our illustrious neighbour Ray Brownlow pounding on the front door, while bellowing dire threats. To be honest I couldn't really blame him. The house was all but vibrating to the sound of Leo Sayer who was singing at ear shattering velocity about feeling thunder in his heart. I actually heard it before I got out of the car. I know I always accuse Twinks of playing his music at full blast, but this was the real McCoy. It was fuller than full blast. It could almost be classified as an audio offensive weapon.
Brownlow turned on me the moment I appeared on scene. Thrusting his face into mine he venomously said if I didn't sort out the fucking racket that my fairy fucking bum chum had been making for the best part of an hour, he'd kick the door down and tear his fucking head off. I smiled at him, said I'd sort it and suggested he leave my property forthwith. He snarled that if it wasn't sorted by the time he got back to his own house he was calling the police.