Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  However, what we’ve lost by way of a hate mailer, we, or at least I, seem to have gained by way of a secret admirer. Yes, it would seem I am the object of someone’s desire, besides him in frocks of course. On Saturday morning a bouquet of flowers arrived, the card was addressed to me and stated simply: I love you. X. I thought they were from Twinks and I was really touched, calling him at work to thank him. He icily informed me that he had not sent any flowers and demanded to know whom I was flirting with. I told him it was probably someone playing a joke and he was the only person who would ever have my heart. He said if he thought for a single moment that I was playing away from home he’d carve out my heart and nail it to the floor. He then sweetly told me to leave the flowers in water and he’d arrange them for me when he got home from work.

  I have to say he arranged the flowers very artistically in what might be termed a ‘free form’ style. In other words he opened the back door and launched the bouquet into the garden where they free formed all over the lawn. Then he slammed the door and stormed upstairs in tears. I followed, saying I hoped he believed that I would never encourage the attentions of another, because I loved him with every fibre of my being. He said yes, he trusted me totally, but it wasn’t fair that I had a secret admirer and he didn’t. Was he so ugly that no one could secretly admire him and send him flowers? He was jealous, not because someone was admiring me, but because they weren’t admiring him. He has a very fragile and yet exacting ego. It demands star treatment ahead of anyone else, including me.

  I was up and about early this morning heading out to a garden centre to buy a bouquet of roses. I left them on our doorstep with a note addressed to Twinks that said: ‘to the boy with the most beautiful smile in the world…from a secret admirer.’ Twinkles was thrilled and with a flutter of eyelashes and a flash of the beautiful smile said he rather hoped his secret admirer had somehow discovered his favourite brand of continental chocolates, and would arrange to have a box of them sent to the object of his desire forthwith.

  It’s an expensive business being a secret admirer. I could end up bankrupt. Still, he’s worth it, the boy with the most beautiful smile in the world.

  13th April 2005:

  Diamonds Don’t Have A Heartbeat

  Twinkles was high when I picked him up from work this evening, and I mean HIGH. At the very least he expected to get adulation, congratulations and dinner out complete with champagne. He was therefore shocked and furious when he got incredulity, disapproval, dinner in and an early night to think about things. He crowned me the king of all shits and expressed a hope that I get testicular mumps causing my balls to swell to the size of melons. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just upset by my reaction to his news.

  Pink diamonds, naturally pink and not those tampered with by science, are among the most rare and expensive of gems. The jewellers that Twinks works for has recently acquired a rather large and beautiful princess cut specimen. Twinkles was therefore very excited when a well dressed man called in at the shop today and made a request to view the pink beauty queening it over lesser rings in the gem window. He was duly shown the item, liked what he saw and decided to have it. A lucrative and exclusive sale for Twinkles and excellent commission you might think? No, it was a robbery. The man squirted pepper spray in Twinkles’ face, snatched the ring and legged it. Despite his streaming eyes, Twinks headed straight after him, motivated by anger at having his mascara made to run and terror at losing the shop’s most valuable piece of stock on the boss’s day off.

  Commonsense tells you that you don’t nick a very expensive ring and then get the bus home. You have a mate with a car waiting as close to the shop as he can get without being wheel clamped, as did the diamond thief. He thought he was home and clear when Twinkles who can shift when he has flat shoes on, managed to jump on top of him, holding on tenaciously and demanding the return of the precious ring. In the struggle to dislodge Twinkles from his back the thief dropped the ring and Twinkles saw his chance and went for it, as did the accomplice who had gotten out of the car and was brandishing a knife that looked sharp enough to perform open-heart surgery. It might well have done just that if Barbara and the other girls from the shop hadn’t had the presence of mind to start furiously pelting him with produce from the outside display of the Greengrocer’s next door. The arrival of the police encouraged the thieves to leave the scene of the failed crime as quickly as possible leaving Twinkles a triumphant lord of the ring.

  So, what’s to disapprove of, after all, Twinks is a hero and I should be proud? And I suppose I should be, but I’m not. I’m cross with him. The ring is basically a lump of coloured carbon. It has no soul or heartbeat and is protected by enough insurance to cover its material value several times over. Twinkles is flesh and blood and his value to me can never be covered, not ever. The strict rule in the shop for all staff is: ‘when threatened, give up the goods, never resist, never pursue, they and their cost are recoverable, human life isn’t.’ Twinkles acted on reckless impulse and it could easily have ended in tragedy. I might have been facing a lonely future and all for the sake of a pretty trinket. Do I have the right to penalise him for his actions though? To be honest, I don’t know. After all, theft is wrong and he was addressing that wrong, despite the clear rules of the Company. I’ll have to give the matter some serious thought.

  16th April 2005:

  Life On Mars

  Poor Twinkles. Not only did he get a good dressing down from me over his reaction to the attempted theft, he got one from his boss too. He was reprimanded for unnecessarily endangering himself and for setting a bad example to other staff by ignoring safety rules. Even worse, the owner of the business made a special point of visiting the shop to remind staff that while their loyalty and honesty were appreciated, dying in the cause of the Company was definitely beyond the terms of their contracts. The message was clear. The rules were there for a reason and must be adhered to. Then he took Twinks out for a nice lunch, which took the sting out of his words a bit.

  I decided that making Twinkles write out the shop rule, regarding what to do in the event of a robbery, fifteen times every evening for a week, would be an appropriate and effective punishment for his ill conceived action. It would hopefully etch it firmly into his head in the event (God forbid) of it happening again. He hates line writing and complained bitterly and at length the first evening, so much so that I threatened to up them to a hundred if he didn’t just shut up and get on with them. He wisely got on with them.

  Our poison pen pal struck again yesterday and so did my secret admirer. We got back from work last evening to find a funeral wreath tied to the door. It bore a card with cut out letters that stated simply: ‘The day is coming when the wicked shall be punished for their evil.’ The flowers were not fresh, which somehow made them even more fearful and intimidating. The wreath had obviously been lifted from a grave. The colour drained from Twinkles’ face and I quickly untied the wreath and unlocked the front door intending to get him indoors, only we were halted by sight of a gift-wrapped package, addressed to me, lying on the doormat. It turned out to be a CD of love songs with a note saying: I dedicate every song on this album to you with all my love. The colour that had drained from Twinkles’ face upon seeing the wreath flooded back and after making exaggerated gagging motions he grabbed the CD case, wrenched it open and ran back outside launching the disc frisbee like into space.

  He’s convinced that the hate mailer and the admirer are one and the same and that someone has developed a deranged crush on me and is planning to kill him, in order to leave the way free to win my heart. I don’t believe the two are related, for one thing the admirer hand writes his/her messages and our persecutor always uses pasted letters. The police are also convinced that the two are unconnected. I guess some might say Twinks and I are just plain unlucky in having two lunatics on our case.

  To cheer Twinkles up, I gave him a present, a pair of high heel pink fluffy mules to replace the broken ones. I was planning on keeping them fo
r his birthday, but what the heck. I miss seeing him come down to breakfast wearing just them and a smile. He was over the moon and I was once again his best and most dearly beloved. He happily tottered around in them, as he got ready to go out.

  Mum was at the PP last night with Priscilla the Preacher/Eric. If someone had told me years ago that one day I would frequent a gay club, famed for its large TV contingent, accompanied by my partner, a gay transvestite, and share a table with my mother and her cross dressing boyfriend I would have requested that they either seek psychiatric help for their strange delusions or that they stop taking tabs, because the trips were getting just a bit too Timothy Leary. However, there I was, with my darling tranny boy in drag queen mode…

  What’s the difference between a drag queen and transvestite, surely they’re the same I hear you ask? Well, no, not always. It’s subtle and kind of complex…some drag queens only ever wear drag for entertaining purposes, their femme is strictly a stage persona and an act and they don’t dress femme at any other time, but some, like Twinks, also cross dress in day to day life because it’s a powerful aspect of their personality and thus they are transvestites and drag queens.

  …Anyway, getting back to where I started. There I was at the PP with Twinkles who was dressed like Bette Davies complete with fake cigarette and proudly wearing his Miss Springtime crown, sharing a table with my mother and her boyfriend, who were wearing different colour versions of the same dress. In addition, I was watching three big drag queens, six foot plus in high heels, do an impression of the Beverly Sisters singing ‘don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.’ No drug on earth could induce a fantasy so bizarre. It was like life on Mars!

  I have to report that Priscilla’s dress sense has improved since he started going out with mum. She’s been giving him tips about makeup and hairstyles. I complimented him on his appearance, which pleased him. Straight transvestites tend to be less flamboyant than gay ones, their aim being to blend in rather than stand out. That said transvestites in general, just like the rest of us, have many different motivations and reasons for doing what they do. Personality and circumstance plus life experiences will influence the individual in many different ways and it isn’t wise to attempt to pin hard and fast definitions on anyone of whatever persuasion. What seems clear is that it’s a part of what they are, like having brown eyes or red hair. It’s an aspect of their genetic make up and a fundamental part of their sexual and emotional identity.

  We got to talking about things and he confided that he feels a great sense of freedom when he leaves behind his male persona and becomes Priscilla. It puts him in touch with aspects of his personality that are somehow closed, or forbidden to him as a man and he feels complete once he’s made the transformation. I didn’t fully understand, but then I don’t understand why anyone can eat prawn cocktail flavour crisps and enjoy them, I just accept that they do and I don’t. He said he feels sad on Sunday evenings, because he knows that he has to leave Priscilla behind and become Eric again for the week ahead, not that he wants to lose Eric altogether. Unlike a transsexual he doesn’t feel trapped in the wrong body, there’s no conflict between his psyche and physical gender. He doesn’t want to stop being a man. He enjoys his masculinity and doesn’t think dressing in women’s clothes emasculates it any way. Mum patted his hand and said she could vouch for that. I think I turned redder than a fire engine at that point. Amazing woman my mother, but you know, sometimes you just don’t want to know that your parents have a sex life. There’s a common filial belief that sex only occurred to produce you and that once you were produced it ceased. It’s more comfortable that way.

  Got to go, it’s time to lay down my pen so to speak. It being Saturday I’m meeting Twinkles for lunch and then I’m going to collect my car from the garage. It’s been re-sprayed after the acid incident. Twinks wanted me to have it sprayed bright pink, but I refused. I’ll be glad to give the so-called courtesy car back. It has a gearbox that whenever I change gears screeches like a drag queen greeting a friend.

  19th April 2005:

  Cereal killer

  Got a dentist’s appointment today. I’m dreading it and it’s not even my appointment; it’s Twinkles. He’s hell to take to the dentist and yes grown man though he is, he has to be TAKEN to the dentist. For one thing he wouldn’t go if you gave him a choice. He’d eat boxfuls of painkillers, weep and wail and neglect the tooth until he ended up needing hospital treatment. For another thing our dentist refuses to treat Twinkles unless I’m there to control him. Poor Mr Tanner, he’s almost lost fingers in Twinkles’ mouth. The man himself, my own bad tooth fairy, is curled up in a chair with a hot water bottle clamped to his face to try and sooth the ache. He’s feeling very sorry for himself, but it’s his own silly fault.

  I was awoken at three a.m. this morning by an almighty scream followed by bangs and crashes and then Twinks yelling, and I quote: ‘you bastards, you evil, evil bastards, I’m going to kill you!’ I was startled to say the least. Pounding downstairs I expected to find Twinks wrestling with armed intruders, only to find him kicking a box of mini fruit and nut weetabix around the kitchen, while verbally abusing them. Never has a breakfast cereal been so maligned, or so scattered. It was everywhere. I stopped him as he began stamping every little biscuit into crumbs and demanded to know what the Hades was going on. It transpired that he’d broken a tooth and apparently it was my fault! How come? Well, he’d woken up feeling peckish and thought he’d slip down for a snack. Only he couldn’t find where I’d hidden the chocolate biscuits and had thus been forced to go for the healthy option and eat cereal (which he eats in handfuls from the box) only it hadn’t turned out to be healthy in his case because he’d cracked a molar on one of the hard little bastards. So much for fibre being good for you. After primly reminding him that I’d hidden the chocolate biscuits at his request, because he was on a diet, I had a look in his mouth. Part of his tooth had sheared straight through. If he’d put milk on the cereal, like you were supposed to, the biscuits wouldn’t have been so hard. After sorting out some pain relief, I took him back to bed and cuddled him until the painkillers kicked in and he fell asleep.

  I woke up this morning to find him quietly whimpering into my chest, the poor love. His tooth was throbbing again and his face was all swollen. He’d be fine, he said, he just needed stronger painkillers. I told him he was going to the dentist, no arguments and that was that. The dismay in the dental receptionist’s voice when I called to make an emergency appointment for him was tangible. She even asked if I were sure it was an emergency? I confirmed that he needed to see the dentist today, at the earliest possible opportunity.

  Right, it’s time for me to sign out. The appointment isn’t actually for another hour and a half, but it’ll take me at least half an hour to coax Twinkles into the car, and longer to coax him back out when we get there. I’m not looking forward to this at all. Wish me luck.

  24th April 2005:

  Royals Fall Out

  The dental visit wasn’t as bad as I feared. There was a mild altercation between Twinks and another patient in the waiting room when they both reached for the same magazine to read. A stern look from me persuaded Twinkles it would be wise to concede defeat and let the other patient have it. After all, she was only five years old and I knew for a fact he’d read that copy of ‘Twinkles’ the magazine for little girls, before. His interest stemmed from the fact that it bore his name, little Narcissus that he is.

  When his name was called he made his usual bolt for it, but the dental nurse and the receptionist are wise to him now and went into action like a well-oiled machine. They each taking a hand and pulling and me bringing up the rear with a hand placed firmly between his shoulder blades, pushing him into the treatment room. Usually Mr Tanner needs some persuasion and reassurance from myself that it’s quite safe to approach Twinkles and that I have him firmly in hand. There was something different about him on this occasion.

  Snapping on a pair of surgical g
loves with a distinct air of aggression, the normally mild mannered man thrust a finger at Twinkles and barked: ‘get in that chair and open your mouth. I want no bloody nonsense!’ It was like seeing a kitten metamorphose into a bulldog. Twinkles face was a picture, but he did as he was told, and with some alacrity. It turns out that Mr Tanner had given up smoking and wasn’t taking to it kindly. His nurse told me she was thinking of swapping her white coat for a flak jacket, and she hoped he got past the craving stage soon. Still, it made for a much easier visit all round. Twinks got his tooth fixed and Mr Tanner retained full possession of all his fingers. I was the only casualty. Twinks held my hand so tightly throughout the procedure that he cut off the circulation. It couldn’t have been any number if the dentist had injected it with Novocain.

  I can’t indulge my newfound penchant for writing for too long this afternoon, as we have visitors due for tea. My father is coming over with Gill, his wife to be, and also her mother, whom we’ve yet to meet. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, not because I don’t enjoy seeing my dad or anything, but because the love of my life is in a foul mood on account of having rowed with Lulu this morning. Lulu was trying to teach him a new dance routine and by way of encouragement told him that he danced like a straight guy with prosthetic legs. Twinkles told Lu that he was turning into a queen bitch and obviously his lack of a sex life was starting to make him bitter and he ought to get out and get some, even if it meant paying for it. He offered to organise a whip round at the PP to pay for a rent boy. I stepped in between them at that point, before they started scratching each other’s eyes out. They refused to make up, so I sent Lulu home. Honestly, who needs kids, certainly not me!