by Swan, Tarn
I wiped his wrathful spittle from my face, quickly put my key in the lock and pushed the door open, yelling Twinkles name. It was lost in the pulsing disco beat reverberating through the house. I swiftly waded my way through the noise to its source, which was the dining room and hit the off switch on the CD player bringing a blessed silence. A sweat drenched Twinkles angrily informed me I was disturbing his dance practice. I angrily informed him that the neighbours were on the verge of calling the police because of the racket and what the bloody hell was he playing at?
By way of reply he said he didn't give a floating turd what the neighbours were on the verge of doing. It was his house and he'd play his music at whatever volume suited him. I told him that while he might not give a fig about the neighbours, I did. It was downright rude to disregard other peoples right to peace and quiet and as far as I was concerned his practice session was over for the day.
He suddenly demanded to know where I'd been for so long? I told him I'd been to the doctors, which he'd know if he bothered to play back the messages on the answer machine. He had played back the messages. He just didn't believe it was a doctor that had been checking out my bodywork all morning. I asked what he meant. He picked at the edge of his arm cast saying I knew perfectly well what he meant, pig that I was.
I didn't have the faintest idea what he was alluding to. I had sore eyes and had come home looking forward to a cuddle and some sympathy and instead had found an impromptu disco, an enraged neighbour and him in a sour mood. He asked if I'd liked the Valentine’s card he’d sent. I said yes, it was adorable. It was already a favourite. He drew a sharp breath, dealt me an even sharper slap across the face and yelled that he hadn't sent it. He then burst into a deluge of tears and fled the dining room. I was utterly flummoxed. I stood there as the sting from the slap registered its full potency and began to recede and all at once I was very disenchanted with the one-man Company known as Drama Queen Theatrics.
Heading after the Company creator I hauled him off the bed where he'd dramatically flung himself. I returned with interest the slap he'd dealt my cheek by dealing one to each cheek of his backside and then towed him back downstairs to the dining room. Thrusting him onto a chair I bluntly told him that if he didn't explain himself, succinctly, I was going to spank his arse until it went into meltdown. Succinct never really came into the equation; it rarely does with Twinkles especially when he's in histrionic mode. I had to make do with tearful verbosity.
It wasn't his Valentine’s card. He hadn't sent it to me and surely I must have noticed it wasn't his writing? I pointed out that I believed the card to be from him and it had never crossed my mind for a second that it wasn’t. My brain reacting to my belief and expectation didn't register anything amiss with the writing style, and that aside I was viewing it through an eye infection.
I made known my intentions to have words with prime suspect Lulu on the matter. Twinks said he'd already had a go at Lulu and it definitely wasn't him, adding that it didn't need a detective to work out who the sender was. It was that hockey-playing bastard from the garage, Stuart Cramer. It had to be. He was after me. He was determined to win my affections, to woo me away. He'd seen the way he looked at me, undressing me with his eyes. He'd watched me that day in the shop and noticed how much I seemed to enjoy talking to Cramer. I was obviously tired of him and wanted someone different, broader and taller who played hockey and didn't wear makeup. I'd proved it by liking that bastard's card and saying it was a favourite and I'd disappeared for hours on Valentine’s Day. What was he supposed to think when he saw the message in a card he hadn't written except that I was off blazing loins with another?
I snapped that he was supposed to think the best of me, not the worst. He was supposed to trust me. Yes, I'd liked the card, but only because I honestly believed it was from him. I had never cheated on him and never would. He knew perfectly well his loins were the only loins I was interested in. It was just typical of him to seize a drama opportunity with both hands and overact with it, instead of thinking it through logically. Did he really imagine I would be daft enough to display a card from someone I was having an affair with on the mantelpiece where he could see it? He hadn't thought of that. He was just so upset to discover it wasn't actually his card I adored, and upset that his card hadn't arrived at all. I sighed and pulled him up from the chair into my arms for a hug, saying I could appreciate it had been a shock.
He wanted me to march down to the garage and thump Stuart, but I refused. To my mind it was an act of malicious mischief to send a Valentine card to someone you knew was in a committed relationship and as such it was best ignored. Besides, it was impossible to prove he had actually sent it.
By late afternoon I had a splitting headache. The eye drops and eyewash far from soothing my eyes made them feel even more sensitive as they worked on the infection and I really did not feel like venturing out. However it was the Valentine Ball and I could hardly let Twinkles go alone to such an event, so I took some painkillers and we went out.
Twinkles' routine was well received and he enjoyed himself. Sadly he didn't win the Queen Of Hearts title. A visiting queen called Va-Va-Voom who did a routine on roller blades won it. The PP regulars were disgusted, complaining that VVV had no right winning it when no one had ever seen her at the PP before. There were murmurings about her being a professional 'Equity' queen who just pretended to be an amateur in order to clean up at small competitions. The bitch. At least it united Natalie and Twinkles who graciously complimented each other on their fabulous outfits and performances, while slagging off VVV…did you see her thighs, darling, when she spun round and her skirt flew up…talk about cellulite. I bet the man from Del Monte wouldn't say yes if he clapped eyes on all that orange peel skin and what about those fat knees, they’d grace a New Zealand rugby player. And her lips, my God, talk about collagen overload. I wouldn't like to think they were going to be clamped around my dick, dearie, she'd drain your balls in one suck….
By eleven o clock I'd had enough. The smoky atmosphere was playing hell with my eyes and I told Twinkles it was time to go home. He didn't want to go home. He was enjoying himself, the night was yet young and it wasn't as if he had work to get up for. I went ahead and called a taxi anyway. He was not pleased. I could have let him stay on his own, but that would have meant paying for two taxi rides instead of one. It would also have meant me staying up until he landed home in the wee small hours, because despite the shorter more manoeuvrable arm cast he still needs my help to get in and out of his costumes and help with his makeup removal. I was tired. I had a headache and sore eyes and I wanted to get home and go straight to sleep. I had done my bit by taking him to the ball when I would have much rather stayed home. In my opinion he was being selfish and inconsiderate and I wasn't going to permit him to get away with it.
He gave me the silent treatment all the way home and it was pure heavenly bliss.
His Valentine card arrived in the post next morning and he took a huff because I said it was lovely whereas I had said the other one was adorable. Perhaps I'd like him to retrieve it from the dustbin and stick it back together? Was his card too femme for me, was that it? Was he too girly for me, should he stop wearing frocks to keep my affection, after all I hadn't wanted to stay out late with him last night, couldn't wait to get home in fact. Was I becoming embarrassed by him and ashamed?
I was saved from reply by the sudden shrill sound of the smoke alarm on the landing going off. I ran upstairs scenting the acrid smell of burning plastic. Smoke was curling thinly from our bedroom and I dashed in to find the duvet on the bed smouldering.
The cause was Twinkles' hairdryer. When he washes his hair, he sits on the bed to dry it and he had obviously set the hairdryer down while it was still running and left it. The build up of heat had caused the hairdryer casing to melt into the duvet and begin to burn. I hastily unplugged the dryer and rolled the duvet in on itself to smother the fledgling flames. I then rounded furiously on Twinkles berating him for yet
another monumental act of costly carelessness and demanding why couldn't he be more...more...I was so angry I was at a loss for words.
He supplied them for me, angrily yelling them in my face, ‘more manly, is that what you're trying to say? More like that prick from the garage? I bet he doesn't leave hairdryers on. He’s too busy butchly fixing engines and charging around muddy fields with the rest of the real men!’ He dissolved into tears and to be perfectly truthful I didn't feel like comforting him. His tears come too conveniently at times. Life had been nothing but stress for ages and I'd had enough. I felt exhausted. I told him if he mentioned Stuart Cramer in my presence again I wouldn't be responsible for my actions. I was going out for a walk and while I was out he could locate the spare duvet and sort the bed out and then he could lie on it until I got back.
I walked down to the village Green and sat for a while watching the ducks on the pond. It was bitterly cold that day. You could see the water beginning to thicken with ice. In a way I regretted telling Twinks about Stuart Cramer, but on the other hand if I hadn't told him and then the supermarket meeting and Valentine card had happened he would have reacted even more theatrically. He just can't resist making a three-act play out of a walk on walk off part.
As I've stated many times, I love Twinkles with all my heart. From the moment I set eyes on him I was captivated. He appealed to some innate part of me which until that moment I hadn't realised existed. There's no rhyme or reason to it, it just is. I believe he was created for me. I believe he's my soul mate and for that reason I'm happy for our life together to be ninety percent about him and ten percent about me. I believe my ten percent is strong and deep enough to satisfy both our needs and counterbalance his excesses.
My father says I spoil and indulge him and it's true to a certain extent. He needs someone to spoil him. God knows no one bothered to do so when he was small. His personality needs a little indulging in order to thrive and be happy. However, sometimes I reach a point where ten percent isn't enough to satisfy me. It doesn't fulfil my requirements and that Wednesday heralded one of those times. I needed more. I needed something to revive my spirit and re-strengthen it. I also needed some time with Jonathan in his full male aspect. I wanted his lovely face scrubbed clean of makeup, his own short brown hair and his beautiful smile. I wanted kisses that wouldn’t leave lipstick on my face. I wanted to feel his stubble scratch my chin. I wanted jeans, t-shirts, sneakers and aftershave instead of frocks, heels and perfume. I fell in love with Jonathan before I met and learned to love Stardust Twinkles and sometimes, just once in a while, I want Jonathan without Miss Stardust taking over.
My parents jointly own a static caravan, which is located on a small private site on the Northumberland coast. When they divorced they couldn't decide who should get it and neither wanted to sell it, or rent it out to strangers, so they decided to keep it as it was and share use of it. It's a very remote place at the best of times and in winter all but deserted. I love it. I love the sea and the coastline and the countryside. I love the solitude and the peace. Twinkles hates it. Solitude and peace are scary things to a person who thrives on attention, sound and motion. We rarely go there and if we do it's on the proviso that we return same day or at best stay one night.
I called my parents and asked if I could use the caravan for a few days and they said yes of course and then I headed home.
Twinkles' face lit up when I told him I wanted us to go away for a few days. He immediately started to talk excitedly about London. I told him I'd had enough of smoky nightclubs and frenetic noise. We were going to Northumberland. His response was much as expected. He claimed there was nothing to do there, ranting that the locals, what few of them existed, still burned men at the stake for wearing aftershave and deodorant let alone a frigging frock and high heels. I explained I needed and deserved a break that catered to my needs for a change. I wanted some serious peace, quiet and fresh air and I was going to have them.
He said I could go on my own because he wasn't spending days cooped up in a biscuit tin shack staring out at the frigging sea. I told him he had no choice. He was still under restriction and I wanted him with me, end of story. He was to pack some things, nothing fancy, just warm things. He flounced off to the bathroom and holed up there. I packed my own stuff, gathered together food and essentials from the cupboards and fridge and put them into the car. I then knocked on the bathroom door and told him I was going to collect the caravan keys from mum and if he wasn't packed and waiting in the hall all ready to go when I got back he would be making the journey in very uncomfortable circumstances.
When I returned he was waiting in the hall clutching his suitcase wearing his pink duffle coat and a pink felt hat. He looked like a gay Paddington Bear. All he needed was a cardboard plaque around his neck scrawled with the message: please look after this brat. I made to take his case from him, but he said he could manage, thank you very much. Flinging it in the back of the car he climbed in next to it. I snapped my fingers at him and indicated that I wished him to sit up front, which he did, giving a little bark to indicate what he thought of me snapping my fingers at him. He sat in silence with a face like a poisoned pup until we were almost two hours into our journey whereupon he turned to me and announced we would have to turn back as he had forgotten something. I asked what? He smiled smugly and said, absolutely everything, Tarn darling.
I pulled over as soon as I could and checked his suitcase. It was empty. The little brat hadn't packed so much as a pair of socks. I was furious. I took a few deep breaths and calmly told him that it looked like he'd be wearing what he was standing up in until Monday then, because we weren't going back. His face was a picture. I don't think he really believed I meant what I said, but I did. He wasn't manipulating me like that, the naughty man. He was aghast. Surely I couldn’t expect him to wear the same clothes, underpants and socks for almost five days? I told him it had been his choice not to bring anything and he would have to live with it. In his considered opinion I was a wicked bastard. I could live with that.
We duly arrived at our destination and I parked in the space next to the caravan and got out. He refused to budge. I unpacked the car, checked everything was in order in and around the caravan, got the power and heating system turned on and the fridge plugged in. I made up the bed in the master bedroom and then I made a pot of tea, telling Twinkles to come inside and have a cup. He didn't want to drink tea in a minging caravan. He was just fine where he was. It's actually a very nice caravan, more like a small bungalow really and it does not ming in any respect.
I left him shivering resentfully in the car and sat in the window seat for a while drinking down tea while drinking in the view outside. It was astounding with miles of ocean, cliffs and rugged deserted beach. I watched the sky turn winter pink tinting the grey waves with colour as the sun began to set and I felt more peaceful and relaxed than I had in a long while. Even my eyes felt less irritated. The light fell away and regretfully I stood up and took my cup into the kitchen. I then went outside and told Twinkles to stop being silly and come indoors and get warm. He stuck a defiant two fingers up at the window. That was it, the last straw. I yanked open the car door, hauled him out and marched him into the caravan where I stripped him down to t-shirt and socks, put him over my knee and gave him one hell of a spanking before putting him sobbing to bed.
I awoke next morning to find him kneeling beside me carefully bathing my eyes with pads soaked in warm water, gently removing the crusts that had formed overnight so it would be easier for me to open my eyes. It was an act of sweet submission and an indication he was reconciled to the idea that it was my turn to have what I wanted.
We went on to have a wonderful few days. We went for long walks on the beach holding hands, safe in the knowledge that we were as natural as the elements and that no one would stare at us and shout abuse to the contrary. We drove out into the countryside and had intimate lunches at little village pubs. We watched the sun go down over the sea on an afternoon and spent th
e cold dark evenings curled up together, sipping wine and watching television or just talking and playing cards. There was no work, no PP and no distractions. It was just us in our raw unfrocked entirety: two men, two lovers, two friends, and a couple.
His lack of clothing was never really a problem. Jeans stay clean forever, even when they're dirty and he shared my tops and socks. To be honest his underpants never stayed on long enough to be considered properly worn.
We bought a stunt kite and spent a memorable laughter filled day flying it on the beach. And that night, despite the freezing cold we got naked and had sex under the frosty stars, blanketed by nothing more than a chill sea wind.
I indulged him once by driving into the historical market town of Alnwick and letting him poke around the fancy goods shops while I did some grocery shopping. While there I bought the absent Miss Stardust a present, a short, black satin nightdress with matching knickers. The nightdress was split up one side and had shoestring straps trimmed with diamante clasps. On our last night at the caravan I sent him to get ready for bed early and while he was in the bathroom I laid the nightdress and knickers on the bed so he would find them when he came out.
His scream of delight when he discovered the gift made me grin. He came hurtling out of the bedroom wearing them and flung himself on top of me covering me with kisses...were his underarms and legs alright, should he shave? He wished he'd bought his boobs. I told him he was beautiful as he was and handed him a glass of champagne, something else I'd bought in Alnwick and kept hidden under the caravan where it had chilled to perfection in the cold air.