by Swan, Tarn
As I mentioned, the weather here has been a tad inclement of late. We’ve had some massive thunderstorms in the last ten days or so and they’ve caused some terrible flash flooding. Compared to some poor unfortunates, we’ve escaped lightly. Even so, I’ll never forget the sight of several feet of water swirling around our kitchen. The flooring was totally ruined in the kitchen and hallway and had to be replaced. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was storm damage, but it wasn’t. It was Twinkles damage.
One evening he had a girl’s night in, a leg waxing party. The very idea of it filled me with horror, so I contacted Brian and some other friends and arranged a lad’s night out. Before leaving I warned Twinks to go easy on the cocktails, both in doling them out and drinking them down. He’s apt to get a bit carried away when mixing drinks and I didn’t want to come home to a houseful of inebriated transvestites. He promised to be the very epitome of sobriety. I also told him to keep the noise down so as not to upset the neighbours. He promised to be the very soul of neighbourly discretion. I warned him that I wanted no fighting, especially if Natalie turned up with Big Mary. At that point, he sweetly asked me if I’d joined the frigging Temperance Movement on the sly and was I actually going out, or was I going to stand there all night spouting Commandants like Moses on a lecture tour. I took his point, kissed him and left. I had a pleasant evening. It’s nice to go out to a regular pub once in a while and just talk with friends.
I got home to find…nothing. No drunken queens rolling around the garden having a punch up, no irate neighbours banging on the door demanding music be turned down. I went into the sitting room to find a happy little throng of freshly leg-waxed queens. They were painting each other’s toenails, quaffing cocktails and nibbling nibbles, while watching a DVD of the film Calendar Girls. I found myself comfortably ensconced at their centre, Martini in hand, Twinkles on my lap. The film was much enjoyed. Drag queens are an impressionable breed and they have passion. If something captures them, it captures them and they fling themselves into it wholeheartedly. Before the film was over, there was talk of setting up a cross dressing version of the W.I. Names were being taken of those willing to pose naked for a drag queen calendar to raise funds for gay charities and Twinkles was planning to make jam and bake a sponge cake first thing on the morrow.
All enjoyed a pleasant evening and in due course I stood on the doorstep with Twinkles waving everyone off. I’m sure most of the neighbours are convinced that I’m some sort of brothel keeper or pimp with all the exotically dressed ‘women’ that come and go from our house. Twinks wasn’t drunk, but he was slightly tiddly, so I carried him up to bed. He was wearing a black lace peignoir, which I have to say is incredibly sexy on him. It’s fairly short at the front, falling into cascading ruffles at the back and it shows off his legs beautifully. He has great legs. I like the feel of them when they’ve been freshly waxed because they’re all silky smooth. Once upstairs he invited me to run my hand up them, which I did willingly enough. Giving me a sexy wink and smile he then guided my hand further. My eyes opened wide and I grinned in delight. He’d had the full Brazilian. That had to have hurt, but oh my, it felt very, very sexy. Let’s just say his lace peignoir soon hit the floor.
I awoke at about three with a need to heed nature’s call. I was heading back to our bedroom when I heard a sound. I stood at the top of the stairs trying to identify it. It was a gurgling, like over stressed drains trying to cope with a heavy downpour. I looked out of the bedroom window, expecting to see it bucketing down, but for once it was dry. That’s when I went downstairs.
As soon as my feet touched the hall floor I knew something was seriously amiss. I turned on the light to see water snaking down the hall, obviously coming from the kitchen. I squelched through it, pushed open the door and a positive deluge rushed out to greet me. What a mess. I got to the sink as fast as I could and turned off the tap that had been left gently running. I couldn’t understand why it hadn’t drained away. The plug wasn’t in. Well, not a regular plug anyway. I soon discovered that wax had set solid in the plughole. It seems that after the waxing session, Twinks was eager to join his hairless friends and not miss any of the films they were watching. Without thinking he carelessly tipped what remained of the hot liquid wax into the sink. Giving his hands a quick rinse under the cold tap, he had then retired to the main arena, not realising he’d clogged the sink and left the tap partially running. He’s always doing that. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a dozen times to make sure he turns the taps off properly. Does he listen? Does he heck!
At least it was clean water; my heart goes out to those people who have suffered river water plundering their homes. Twinkles was devastated. It was hard to be cross with him in the face of his genuine contrition. And yet, here we are again, this evening, TV-less, bulb-less, shade-less and all because Twinkles doesn’t think before acting.
He’s gone from being huffy to being miserable. I suppose it won’t kill me to go give him a cuddle.
30th June 2005:
New Balls Please!
It looks very much like our anonymous mail friend is back on the scene. It’s all been quiet for a while, no letters, no hoax calls and no wreaths. He’s either been sick, physically, rather than just in the head, on holiday or found someone else to persecute for a time. However, we came home from work this evening to discover that someone had beheaded all our garden gnomes, scattering torsos and heads across the front lawn. They weren’t just your box standard, run of the mill garden gnomes either. They were gay pride gnomes: two drag queens, two lesbians canoodling on a bench and two male gnomes who were doing something decidedly suspect with what appeared to be a length of hosepipe and a watering can. They were gifts from our friends Val and Sandra who make them as a hobby. I’ll be brutally honest here and say that in one respect I didn’t mind the slaughter. I couldn’t stand the hideous things and I wouldn’t miss seeing them in the garden. What I did mind was that someone thought they had the right to do that to us. It’s the insult, the contempt, and the hatred inherent in the action that disturbs me. I reported it to the police with no real hope that they would do anything.
I feel a bit depressed about it. This could go on for years and there’s nothing we can do to stop it, short of selling up and moving right away and even then there’s no guarantee that it will cease. I asked the neighbours if they’d seen anything and naturally they hadn’t, but they offered to keep an eye open for anyone suspicious hanging around our property. Though, as Twinks said, when you thought about it, all the callers at our house would appear suspicious to most people. I told Twinkles not to let on to Val and Sandra about what had happened, as I didn’t want them getting upset about the spiteful destruction of their gifts (I was also terrified that they might offer us replacements)
I’m a grass widower this evening. Twinks is out. He and Lulu were invited over to Maurice and Teddy’s place to play tennis, mixed doubles. They drew lots to see who played as who. Lulu drew to play as Bjorn Borg with Teddy as Martina Navratilova. To Twink’s delight he drew to play as Venus Williams along with Maurice as John MacEnroe…yes, I know, that’s exactly what I said…you cannot be serious? Talk about fantasy tennis! I was invited to take on the role of umpire, but I politely declined, claiming I had some work to do at home. I didn’t fancy attempting to umpire that quartet. It would take the U.N. to keep peace between them.
I had to have stern words with Twinkles even before he left the house. His tennis dress was super short, which I didn’t mind. What I did mind was that the only thing he had on underneath it was a thong so wispy you’d be forgiven for mistaking it for a spider’s web. He said I was being a prude. I said he was being naughty and I knew what his game was and it wasn’t tennis, it was downright cheating. No one on the court would be able to concentrate on the balls going over the net, not when they were too busy looking at another set of balls and a couple of globes bobbing around the court. What’s under his dress is for my eyes only and I didn’t want it on display to anyo
ne else. I told him that if he didn’t put on some adequate underwear, then it was game, set and match to me and he’d be heading to the dressing room for an early shower. He grumbled, but did as he was told. I also warned him not to throw a tantrum if he and Maurice lost and to try and maintain a sense of good sportsmanship. He was deeply offended that I should even presume to question his sportsmanship. He was renowned for his graciousness in defeat. I suppose we all have our delusions about something. Actually, I don’t think there’ll be any winners or losers this evening. Judging from the distant rumblings and strange light I’d say rain is about to stop play. God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.
3rd July 2005:
War Of The Worlds
I’m slightly hard of hearing today. We were at the PP last night and Brian had arranged for big screens to be put up to show the G8 concerts. I’m not so much deaf from the loudness of the music, as from the loudness of the company. Sitting at a table with a gaggle of drag queens doesn’t do much for the well being of your aural nerves. Mine were suffering even before Diva Madonna set foot on the stage. They went into shock as soon as she appeared, shrivelling under a cacophony of shrieks, screeches and acidic comments…‘oh, what a terrible outfit, looks like pyjamas, you’d think she’d have dressed up for the occasion, have you seen her hair, terrible, doesn’t suit her, and my dear, look at those muscles, you can’t tell me she isn’t on testosterone injections, she’s more butch than a lesbian bus driver…’ Twinkles said he would have to start pumping iron in order for his Madonna impersonation to be more authentic. Lulu told him he’d be hard pressed to pump a bike tyre never mind iron. Twinkles retaliated by snapping at least I don’t have to pump my own…at which point I cut him off with a stern look.
The appearance of the Scissor Sisters prompted another assault on my long-suffering eardrums. They also prompted a row between you know who. Twinkles said he thought that Ana Matronic’s frock, indeed her whole figure, was very Marilyn Monroe in style. Natalie bitchily remarked that there was enough blubber hanging over the back of her halter neck dress to attract the Japanese whaling fleet. Twinkles applauded her for not being one of those overly skinny pop stars that looked liked they hadn’t had food since their mother stopped breast feeding them and anyway, Natalie need talk about blubber, as she had so much wobbling around on her arse it was a wonder that Greenpeace hadn’t sent out a boat to protect it from harpoon attack. I stopped it there before it escalated any further, confiscating both their handbags before they started using them like medieval flails. I made Twinkles apologise for his remark and told Natalie to try and be less caustic, to which she replied, caustically, I’m a drag queen, dear, it’s my duty to be caustic.
George Michael caused another ear splitting outburst, though Twinkles said he didn’t care for his beard and he’d have to shave it off before he’d consider snogging him. I rather rashly made a small comment about liking Brad Pitt’s blonde look. Twinkles, Mr double standards, immediately went into a huff, accusing me of lusting after other men and blonde ones at that. Wasn’t his boring brown hair good enough for me anymore? What would it take to make me love him again, peroxide, was that it, was he going to have to join the ranks of the bottle blondes to keep my attention? I wearily took a couple of painkillers, inserted some cotton wool into my throbbing ears and told Twinks that if he so much as looked at a bottle of hair dye he’d have to get used to standing up for the rest of his life. It was a relief to get home.
We went to the cinema this morning to see War of the Worlds. Twinks and I are in two minds about Tom Cruise. We’re not sure if we fancy him or not, or whether he’s cute or sexy. We think he might be cute, but not sexy, though we both agree that should he ‘turn’ neither of us would kick him out of bed in a hurry. The film was enjoyable and a bit scary in parts, which I hadn’t expected, especially as it was classified as only a 12A. Twinkles almost jumped out of his skin when the first alien tripod shot out of the earth and began to destroy everything in sight. He let out a cry of fright and shot back in his seat, hurling the contents of his popcorn carton over his shoulder and showering the people in the row behind. He then clutched my arm so hard I thought he was going to yank it out of its socket. By the end of the film he was all but on my lap. There were people in the cinema that didn’t know whether to watch the screen or watch us. The little boy sitting next to Twinks, who looked all of ten, very kindly told him not to be scared, as it was just a film.
We’re going over to mum’s for dinner this evening, it’s a special occasion. My sister Maryann is home. She arrived late last night and then went to visit dad and Gill this morning, so we haven’t actually seen her yet. She works and lives in Scotland and this is her first visit home since Christmas. I talked to her on the phone briefly this afternoon, when I managed to prise it away from Twinkles. He thinks the world of Maryann, and she adores him. I was worried that they wouldn’t get on when I first introduced them. Maryann says Twinks is the perfect best friend, as he’s interested in clothes, makeup, shoes, gossip and men, but no threat whatsoever to your chances of getting a date. Maryanne and I used to have a bit of a problem when it came to meeting each other’s boyfriends, especially if one of us was between dates. We seemed to share a similar taste in men, which could be frustrating. It ticked her off seeing me with blokes that she fancied when she didn’t have a boyfriend, and the same for me. She fancied my boyfriends and I fancied hers, but never the twain could meet. Maryann is currently dating someone. She’s been seeing him for two months and has brought him with her, that’s partly why I couldn’t get the phone off Twinks. He was quizzing her about her beau, nosy devil that he is. We’re looking forward to seeing her and meeting him.
8th July 2005:
London
It’s hard to focus on anything other than the news surrounding the terrorist attacks in London. It’s also very hard to imagine what kind of people can encourage and carry out such vile acts. How can they then go about their own lives after destroying the lives of so many innocents? How do they sleep, how can they look with ease on the faces of their loved ones, after murdering other people’s loved ones? Twinkles says they’re not people, they’re sub-human, savage bastards who want to oppress and destroy anything that doesn’t fit their sick little view of the world. I can sympathise with his angry sentiments, some of the stories we’ve heard have been harrowing in the extreme. Our heartfelt sympathies go out to all those so cruelly affected.
On a lighter note this evening, Twinkles is currently hiding behind the sofa, because the little girl next door, who’s eight, is looking for him. She’s peeping through the window and he’s terrified she’ll spot him. She wants him to play skips with her. She’s got a new rhyme to teach him. She saw him in the garden doing his skipping routine a few days ago and has plagued him ever since. As soon as we get home from work she’s ringing the doorbell, asking if he’s coming out to play. Poor Twinks, he doesn’t mind playing for fifteen minutes or so, but she’s relentless and she can skip him off the planet. He’s shattered. However, what’s really scaring him is that she’s taken a fancy to his beloved pink fluffy mules and wants to wear them. Every time the doorbell sounds he looks at me wildly, mouthing, ‘tell her I’m out, don’t let her in,’ while clasping his mules protectively to his bosom. He says it’s my fault she’s latched onto him and I should never have given him his skipping rope back. He’s snaking across the floor on his stomach now, on his way towards the stairs so he can make a start on getting ready to go out later. He says he’s taking his mules with him, in case Gabby breaks in to steal them while we’re out. I think he’s joking, on the other hand….
12th July 2005:
Drag Starfish
My sister and her boyfriend returned to Scotland on Saturday after staying with Mum for a week. It was good to see Maryann. Sadly, neither Twinkles nor I much cared for Callum, her boyfriend. First impressions were favourable. He was good looking, in a heavy, blonde rugby player sort of way. The type I once might have f
ancied, before I was blinded by Stardust. Personality wise, how can I put it, he was lacking a certain charm, especially when Maryann and mum were out of earshot. It wasn’t too bad at first, though you could tell he wasn’t comfortable with the relationship that Twinkles and I share, which is fair enough. It takes some people a little time to relax with something unfamiliar to them. Twinkles was dressed conventionally, for him anyway, in a white t-shirt, pedal pusher jeans and a pair of lilac suede sandals that showed off his painted toenails. Maryann loved his sandals, she’s as bad as him when it comes to shoes, and immediately made him take them off, so she could try them on. They both take a size seven in a shoe. Callum didn’t like this, making little noises of disgust that neither Twinks nor Maryann heard, engaged as they were with shoe talk and catching up on sundry gossip. I heard though, as was the intention. I also noted with some disquiet the sideway looks that he kept giving Twinkles. He really did not like him, or the fact that Maryann obviously does. He proceeded to find any opportunity to have a sly dig at Twinks, making snide jokes and comments about female impersonators, all in a wink-wink, just teasing, sort of way, but with an unmistakeable edge to it. I felt like punching his teeth out.