by Swan, Tarn
14th January 2005:
A Wife With Balls
I confess to being a bit preoccupied on Wednesday night. Despite my stern admonitions my mind insisted on dwelling on the matter of the flowers I’d found on the doorstep. I just couldn’t get my head around the level of sick spite it took to remove a son’s tribute from his father’s grave like that. I’d be willing to bet his grandfather was the initiator, vindictive old bastard that he is. When I met Twinkles he was already estranged from his family, he’d left the family home when he was borderline seventeen. He actually comes from quite well to do stock on his mother’s side and the family home is a fairly impressive pile of Victorian masonry owned and co inhabited by his mother’s father, who also owns a fair proportion of land around the area. There was no doubt that it was he, and not Twinkle’s father, who was head of the household and no one dared have an opinion that didn’t meet and match his in every respect.
Twinkles’ grandfather may not have approved of his grandson nor cared to support him in any way, but he still made it his business to keep tabs on him. Not long after Twinks and I moved in together, he got wind of it and paid us a surprise visit. He stood in our home and in a calm monotone delivered a chilling indictment of our lifestyle. We were deviants of the worst kind, perverts whose very existence contaminated the planet and we’d undoubtedly go to hell. He told us that he would continue to pray that we would see the error of our ways. He wasn’t a big man, not in stature but he was disturbingly compelling, his pale blue eyes radiated a cold malevolence that was almost paralysing in its intensity. His effect on Twinkles was horrifying. I could almost see him diminishing under the gaze of those eyes, flinching as if the words were blows. I hustled the man out of the house as fast as I could, before the urge to deck him became one I couldn’t resist. The encounter left me feeling somehow violated and I had a weird compulsion to wash my hands over and over again. How the hell Twinkles had survived in that household was beyond me, it made me admire his courage all the more.
I suddenly became aware that Twinkles was bustling around the room, plumping up sofa cushions, tidying the magazines and newspapers that lay scattered across the coffee table and arranging them into neat, accusatory little piles that said, you’re not paying me due attention. Making a determined effort, I thrust the flower incident into the trashcan of my mind and asked if he’d like a cup of coffee? He declined with a weighted sigh, saying he wouldn’t want to put me to any trouble. I said it was no trouble at all. I was making myself one. Apparently that was tantamount to accusing him of being unequal to the task of making me a decent cup of coffee. His coffee obviously wasn’t good enough for me. I refuted the accusation and said he could make the coffee if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. If I wanted coffee, I could make my own bloody coffee, he wasn’t there purely to serve my needs. I asked him if he was all right? He said he was fine, fine, absolutely spiffing in fact.
I made the coffee, two cups, in case he changed his mind and decided to join me. Setting the tray on the coffee table I sat back down and smiled at him, receiving a frosty look in return. I reached for a magazine to read while I drank my coffee, regretting it immediately as he made a point of re-tidying the pile with a look of long suffering on his face. Detecting a whiff of burning martyr I put my cup down and asked what was bothering him? There was nothing bothering him, why would there be anything bothering him, what could possibly be bothering him…apart from the fact that I hadn’t complimented him on dinner, not that he was bothered. He was getting used to being taken for granted. Seeing as dinner had been a Chinese takeaway and all he’d done was set the table and put out plates, I found that rather an unfair criticism, particularly as I’d washed up afterwards. Nonetheless, I apologised for not having complimented him on ordering a very nice Chinese takeaway.
Silence reigned for a few minutes, but not a peaceful silence, it was a seeking silence. He suddenly announced that he was sorry for being a nuisance over the past few days. He really hadn’t meant to be a nuisance. I told him he had been no such thing and pulled, or tried to pull him onto my lap for a cuddle. He pulled away from me jolting the coffee table in the process and upsetting the coffee cups. Fortunately the metal tray contained the spill, so no harm was done, except it was the opportunity he’d been seeking to make a lateral move into self-pity and self-condemnation. Yes, he WAS a nuisance, he had always been a nuisance, his clumsiness with the coffee proved it and it was no wonder that his family hated him and now I hated him. I was hardly speaking to him. I’d ignored him all evening and then cast doubts on his ability to make coffee. I hadn’t complimented him on dinner all of which was a sure sign of my waning interest, and to think he’d given me the best years of his life, his green and tender years. He was going out to be with people who appreciated him.
I caught him before he could flounce out of the sitting room telling him that if he wanted my attention all he had to do was ask for it, there was no need to produce a three act drama. Though in appreciation of his efforts I gave him a short round of applause across the seat of his trousers. Then I apologised for being preoccupied, claiming tiredness, which was true. I was mentally tired having spent so much energy dwelling on something that I couldn’t share with Twinkles because it would hurt him too much. He forgave me instantly and insisted on giving me a back massage. I love his massages. He has magic fingers and his tongue can cast a spell or two as well.
We ended up having sex, not huge, mind-blowing sex, but small comforting sex. We cuddled afterwards. I like that almost as much as the sex itself, it’s the affirmation that we have something more than just a quick high and an exchange of body fluids. There was one point in my life while sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, a bed I’d recently had sex in with a man whose name was already fading from my memory, when I wondered if the hello/fuck/goodbye cycle was all that life had to offer me as a gay man. Not that I’m saying there’s anything wrong with that kind of lifestyle. Hello/fuck/goodbye suits some men just fine, but not me. I’d gone beyond it. I wanted more. I wanted commitment, cuddles after sex, someone who was there at breakfast, and still there at dinner, someone I could buy flowers for and fuss over. I suppose what I wanted was a wife with balls, what I got was a man in a frock…utter perfection!
16th January 2005:
Qweers Live Here
Some weekends are destined to be less than restful. In fact some weekends should come with a ‘opt out and wake me up on Monday for work’ button. On Friday morning Brian rang to say that Stevie had been hospitalised with a chest infection, something he’s very prone to. He sounded tired and anxious and I did my best to reassure him that Stevie was in the best place and he’d be fine once he got the right meds. Then Katie, our near neighbour, alerted us to the fact that someone had sprayed ‘Qweers live here,’ in huge letters on the outside of the back garden fence. Twinkles was furious. He didn’t so much mind the obvious being stated, after all, queers do live here, but he at least wished they’d bothered to spell it correctly instead of using the Chav alphabet and unattractive fluorescent green paint (frigging pinkophobes) I was more annoyed that it would cost both time and money to creosote out the lettering. I hate creosoting at the best of times.
We were invited to a party on Friday evening. It was a combined celebration and pity party thrown by our lesbian friends Val and Sandra. The celebration was for their tenth anniversary together and the pity was for Val who had reached the milestone of forty. At one point it looked like their tenth anniversary might well be their last after Sandra plastered the neighbourhood with picture posters of Val that read: ‘look Who’s 40.’ Val almost blew a gasket raging that it was tantamount to standing naked in the street and flagellating herself while screeching her age. It was bad enough actually turning fucking forty and bad enough that friends knew she was fucking forty, without half the local fucking population pointing at her in the street and saying ‘look, there’s that woman who’s forty.’ She threatened to plaster the neighbourhood with posters of Sandr
a that read: ‘look who lives with a forty year old lesbian.’ Poor Sandra. She hadn’t realised how sensitive Val was to the onerous birthday and argued that Val should have said something. After all she wasn’t psychic and she’d only been trying to make an occasion of it. Val apologised for her outburst and also for not letting Sandra know how she really felt about it. They both had a good cry and then they were all lovey-dovey again.
Twinkles took forever getting ready for the party because he knew Natalie would be there and he wanted to make sure he out-glammed him, or rather her. Now, you may notice some gender confusion on my part when it comes to hims and hers. I’m afraid Twinks gets very cross with me sometimes, because I still frequently say ‘he’ instead of ‘she’ and he says I ought to know that as soon as a transvestite of any kind dons frock and makeup, he becomes she. I have to remember to make the gender switch or it’s an insult. It’s all to do with cross-dressing etiquette. I’m sure he makes a lot of it up as he goes along just to wrong foot me. Anyway, he (and he is always he to me, even when dolled up to the eyes, perhaps because I’m so familiar with what lies under the frocks and believe me he’s all man in that respect, especially once the falsies come off) decided to wear the black glittery dress that he’d bought for New Years Eve, but hadn’t worn because of his stage debut that night.
By the time we arrived the party was in full swing, a deliberate ploy by Twinkles because of course being a dramatist he likes to make a big entrance. There was a fairly eclectic bunch of people present. However, it has to be said that it’s usually the glamour queens who dominate at any gay gathering. They tend to be much more flamboyantly costumed than anyone else and of course everyone looks at them and they love it, playing to the crowd for all they’re worth. Val and Sandra complimented Twinkles on his outfit and Val said that if she didn’t know he had a dick tucked inside his knickers, she could almost fancy him. They were admiring his new sparkly chandelier earrings when who should arrive, even later than us, but Natalie… wearing exactly the same dress as Twinks! There was a moment of stunned silence and then all hell broke loose. They both let out yells of pure rage, each accusing the other of deliberately copying the outfit. Twinkles shrieked that as he’d arrived at the party first, it was up to Natalie to bugger off home and change into something different, and anyway, the truth had to be faced he wore the dress so much better than she did. Sandra poured oil and said they both looked gorgeous and it didn’t matter if they had the same dress, because they both had different accessories.
Natalie’s friend Big Mary exchanged a sympathetic eye roll and grimace with me and then dragged Nat towards the bar to get a drink while I dragged Twinkles to a table as far away from them as possible. I assured Twinkles that yes, he looked better in the frock than Natalie did, yes, his high heel sandals were much more tasteful and glamorous than the court shoes that Natalie had crammed on her dirty great feet. However, when he started to speculate that Natalie, conniving bitch that she was, had probably got her dress cheap, just like her, in the January Sales, I put an embargo on the subject telling him he was not going to spend all evening obsessing over it. I also told him that he was to steer well clear of Natalie, warning that if he caused any kind of trouble and spoiled Sandra and Val’s party I would take him home and spank him until sitting down seemed like a legend his ancestors talked about. He was distinctly sour for the rest of the evening and when he ‘accidentally’ tripped Natalie causing her to sprawl across the dance floor in a very undignified manner, laddering her stockings in the process, I insisted we make our excuses and leave. Once home he found himself sprawled across my knees in an even less dignified manner with his dress around his waist and his knickers around his knees as I made known my disapproval of his spiteful action.
As is my habit I went to meet Twinks for lunch on Saturday. He was serving a customer when I entered the shop and didn’t look too pleased about it. I wasn’t surprised as I recognised the customer in question. It was one Leonard Peterson, a man who had recently dated Lulu after meeting him at a gay singles night. Leonard had known Lu only by his birth name of Fred at first and when Fred had ‘come out’ and told him about his alter ego, Lulukalala, Leonard had responded by saying that if he’d wanted to date a woman and fondle tits instead of balls then he’d be straight, and promptly dumped him. Lulu had been devastated. Twinkles was being polite to Leonard, but not really, if you get my drift. He made a big show of inspecting the expensive watch that had been handed over for a battery replacement. Smiling sweetly he commented, ‘aren’t some of these copy watches clever, this almost looks like a real Gucci.’ Leonard had scowled and said ‘that’s because it is.’ Twinkles feigned surprised, saying, ‘it just goes to show that even the best of companies can produce their share of tat. It must be one of their lower end of the market lines.’ After deftly replacing the battery, he carefully put the watch on the little gadget that the shop uses for refitting the backs securely. As he turned the pressure gauge, there was an expression on his face that I can only describe as inscrutable. An ominous crack suddenly sounded and inscrutability was replaced with barely concealed glee. ‘Oh dear’ he said putting a hand to his cheek, ‘silly, clumsy me. I’ve screwed a little too hard and broken your watch glass. I do apologise. We will of course replace the glass absolutely free of charge. Though I’m afraid it will have to be sent away to the manufacturer, but never fear, we’ll lend you a watch to wear until yours is returned to your bosom, or rather your wrist.’ Naturally enough Leonard was not a happy bunny, especially when Twinkles let it be known that his watch could take up to three weeks to be repaired. He was even less happy when the courtesy watch turned out to be a cheap, tatty old Timex with a nasty plastic strap…all they had left to offer, something I very much doubted. He left the shop with the air of a very dissatisfied customer. Twinkles’ grin subsided a little as he caught my eye. I didn’t care for the way Leonard had treated Lulu, but I thought Twinkles’ behaviour was beyond the pale. When challenged he refused to admit that he’d broken the glass on purpose, but I knew he had.
Lunch was a very strained affair because I expressed my disapproval of people who consciously damaged other people’s personal property before dishonestly passing the cost of putting it right to the small company they worked for. I asked him to recall how he’d felt on Friday when he discovered that someone had damaged our property by daubing it with graffiti. He said that was different because we hadn’t deserved it, but Leonard, heartbreaker, Peterson had. I asked if that amounted to a confession that he had indeed damaged the watch on purpose. He declined to comment. I told him that while his loyalty to Lulu was commendable, his behaviour towards Peterson certainly wasn’t. It was a sad fact that not everyone could cope with the idea of dating a transvestite. It was a matter of preference, like not going for blondes or blokes with big biceps. I told him that I could understand that he was upset and angry on Lulu’s behalf, but engaging in deliberate vandalism as revenge wasn’t on. He told me I was a frigging prig and added that if it would make me happy and get me off his case, he’d pay for the bloody watch glass out of his own pocket. I said yes it would make me happy; it was the decent, honest thing to do. He glared at me and said he hadn’t realised he was shacked up with the patron saint of the anally retentive, and did my followers light their farts instead of votive candles when they paid homage? Then he told me not to bother picking him up from work that evening, as he would get the bus over to Lulu’s house and go straight to the Pink Parrot from there. I told him that I’d pick him up as usual and he wouldn’t be going anywhere but home and staying there. Our parting was cool and kiss-less.
18th January 2005:
Hate Mail
It was none of my business what he did at work, none whatsoever, what he did when he was at work was his business and his alone, and I had no right, none whatsoever, to interfere or comment or impose a punishment on him for something that took place during working hours. Our relationship rules did not apply to his place of work. Such was the ant
hem that Twinkles chanted all the way home on Saturday evening, made from the back seat of the car, he making known his disgust with me by refusing to sit in the front. I agreed that while his work was none of my business, his behaviour certainly was, wherever he was, and as I’d witnessed his behaviour first hand I had every right to make comment on it. In my opinion he deserved to be punished not only for the way he’d acted, but also for not thinking of the possible consequences of it. He was bloody fortunate that Leonard Peterson hadn’t asked to see the manager to make a formal complaint against him. I would if it had been me. A second of satisfaction in wreaking revenge on behalf of a friend could easily have cost him his job. I also told him that his attitude after being challenged over it had contributed to my decision to punish him. I wasn’t going to be spoken to like that (even if the votive candle quip was quite amusing)
He got on the phone as soon as we got home, loudly telling Lulu that he wouldn’t be out that evening because ‘HE’ was being anally retentive and had totally spoiled any inclination to socialise. When I informed him that dinner was ready he informed me that he’d rather drop a bra size than eat anything I’d prepared and took himself off to bed in high dudgeon. When I went up later I found him arrayed in a full-length satin nightdress accessorised with diamante earrings and matching necklace. He even had a touch of lip-gloss and mascara on. The message was very clear. I might be able to make him miss out on the PP, but I couldn’t make him completely forego his Saturday night dose of glitz and glamour. He woke me up at three o clock in the morning to apologise and admit that he shouldn’t have done what he’d done. It had been immature and spiteful. Did I still love him? I assured him that I did indeed love him and he said great, because he was absolutely starving and could I make him a sandwich because I made the best sandwiches and it had been my turn to make dinner. They say that love is blind. It must be, either that or stupid, how else would I have found myself making ham sandwiches at three o clock in the morning for a man in a pink satin nightie.