by Swan, Tarn
I awoke in the early hours of this morning to find him standing by the window, chewing at his fingernails. I went to him, taking him in my arms and he clung to me, saying he didn’t want me to leave him. I said it would take wild horses to drag me away and I doubted the impending biopsy results were anything to worry about, because as we’d discussed, the hospital would have contacted me and asked me to go in and start immediate treatment if it were serious.
I thought I was prepared for anything, but when the Consultant at the hospital calmly told me the mole I’d had removed was indeed a malignant melanoma, as he’d suspected, it was like being given a sharp blow to the face. However, my shock was nothing compared to that of the medic and his nurse attendant when Twinkles, as soon as the word malignant was said, let out a piercing scream and leapt to his feet. He grabbed the notes from the desk saying they must have got them mixed up with somebody else’s. On reading my name on them he gave way to total hysteria. He slapped at me when I tried to touch him, screeching that I was a lying swine for telling him there was nothing to worry about. He then told the poor nurse that her eye shadow was ghastly and he didn’t like it and then accused the astounded Consultant of being a homophobic quack and he was going to report him to the BMA and have him struck off. It was all rather awful and embarrassing.
My instinct was to smack his bottom in order to break his hysteria and calm him down, but I could hardly do that considering where we were. Taking a firm grip of him I sat down seating him securely on my lap. I don’t know who was trembling more, Twinkles, the Consultant, the nurse or me. We must have looked liked a small impromptu gathering of the American religious sect, the Shakers. Taking a deep breath I sincerely begged their pardon for the rumpus, finding myself saying, ‘he’s very emotional, he’s a transvestite,’ as if that explained it all. They both said ‘ah’ as if indeed it did explain it all. The nurse was very forgiving and got Twinkles some tissues to blow his nose on. He managed to compose himself enough to apologise to her and the doctor for his remarks.
The Consultant was actually rather sweet. He pulled his chair up next to us, took hold of Twinkles’ hand and patted it in that inimitable way that doctors do. I think they must do a course in it at med school…sympathetic hand patting. He explained that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded and to hear him out. The tests on the mole had shown that I had stage one, or very early melanoma, which meant I was lucky. It hadn’t grown deep enough into the skin to allow cancerous cells to break away and spread. He said that when he had cut it out last week, he had taken a little of the tissue around it and this had been shown to be healthy, which was a very good sign, as was the fact my blood tests were clear. He examined my shoulder and said it was healing really well and then the nurse took out the stitches, which incidentally was more uncomfortable than them being put in. I’ll need to have check ups at three month intervals, probably for at least two to three years, but otherwise was told to just go away and get on with my life, while taking every precaution to protect my skin from the sun. I was advised against going abroad this year, as the scar on my shoulder will be particularly sensitive for quite some time.
When we got to the car Twinkles climbed in, fastened his seat belt, put his hands between his knees, turned his tear ravaged countenance towards me and said, ‘see, Tarn darling, all that fuss you made was for nothing.’ I repressed an urge to throttle him and leaned over and kissed him instead. He wrapped his arms tight round my neck. Bless him, he was still trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale and I wasn’t much better. I felt suddenly drained. You don’t realise how much energy you use when you worry about something, even if you’re not always consciously aware that you are in fact worrying. And those words: malignant, cancer, are so potent. It really shakes you to hear them in whatever degree with relation to yourself or the ones you love. It makes you aware of how fragile life can be.
As soon as we got home I divested Twinks of the article he’d torn out of a magazine that claimed figs would give you a perfect complexion and binned it. He then took possession of the phone to tell anyone that would listen the outcome of my appointment. My jaw dropped when I overheard him telling mum that I’d got a bit hysterical when the doctor had first told me the mole was malignant, and he’d had to tell me to calm down and let the doctor finish what he was saying. He then said it was a good job he could keep a level head in a crisis! I was considering walloping his bum when the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find myself presented with a beautiful spray of elegant cream coloured roses accompanied by a card that read: you can never leave me, because wherever you go my heart and soul will go with you… all my love, Twinkles. It was his turn to hold me tight as the floodgates opened. He asked did I like the roses. I said yes, they were beautiful. He asked did I like his message and I said I loved it and would treasure it. He said good, because when he told Lulu what he’d written he’d said it sounded more like a threat than a declaration of love and I’d probably think the roses were from our stalker. Well that nicely explained their quarrel on Thursday night. I told him that Lulu was naughty and had just been winding him up and I hoped they’d kiss and make up this evening.
So, that’s our week to date. I was dreading that appointment this morning. I’m glad it’s over and we can just get on with life.
Skin cancer can be deadly. It kills more young people than any other cancer, so be vigilant. Look after your skin, slap on the sun block and remember to check any moles regularly, or get someone else to check them. I dread to think what might have happened if Twinkles hadn’t noticed the changes to the mole on my shoulder.
28th July 2005:
Gay Fascism
We went out to the PP last Friday night as per usual. After the stress and strain of the preceding week it should have been fun, an opportunity to unwind, but it didn’t quite work out that way. As a consequence Twinkles got in an almighty grump with me. I was relegated to the very bottom of his Christmas card list, the sort of person who gets sent the very last card in the box, the one with the grotty picture and tarnished glitter.
What happened was that on Friday night Brian announced that the Pink Parrot would be closed on Saturday and Sunday for essential maintenance work. As a result Cherie Pie suggested that a gang of the girls got together and took a weekend trip to London. There was an international Drag Cabaret Show at one of the theatres on Saturday. Famous Showbiz Queens from around the world would be making appearances and he knew there were still tickets available for the Saturday Matinee performance. It would be a chance to go and view some professional Divas at work, and maybe even get to meet some of them. The Kinsey Sicks were on the bill and it was even rumoured that the highly revered RuPaul was scheduled to make a rare appearance (and horses might fly)
Twinkles loved the idea and was well up for it. I had to gently and discreetly remind him before he got too carried away with plans, that unlike the others, he had work commitments to fulfil on a Saturday. He shrugged them off as easily as he shrugged off a feather boa, saying I could call him in sick. I could say he had a migraine or something. I wasn’t prepared to lie on his behalf, certainly not when I knew the shop was already short handed due to illness and holidays. It would be unfair to leave his remaining colleagues struggling even harder to cope with a busy Saturday. Fine. If I wouldn’t call him in sick, then he’d call himself in sick. I forbid him to do so. He didn’t take it well. I sympathised, but I wasn’t prepared to tell lies for him, nor was I going to condone him telling them. I really did think it was more important for him to honour his commitments at work than to go on a jaunt to London. I suppose my ‘bossy’ instincts were operating on several levels. I certainly wouldn’t appreciate my work staff pulling a fake sick day, especially if we were undermanned to begin with. The evening was effectively over from that moment. He wanted to go home. There was no point staying, not with everyone discussing plans for a trip he wasn’t allowed to go on. It wasn’t as if he could even have a drink to drown his sorrows, because he still wasn’t allowed
alcohol. He’d call a taxi. I could stay for all he cared. In fact he’d prefer it if I did stay, because he didn’t want my company. I said it was too bad, because he was getting it whether he liked it or not.
Usually we both get in the back of a taxi, but he pointedly bundled himself into the front seat, leaving me to get in the back alone. As soon as we drew up at the house he hurled himself out of the cab, his stilettos tapping an angry staccato rhythm on the pavement as he headed up the path. The taxi driver, a regular of ours, gave me a quizzical look, saying wryly, ‘I’m guessing that Miss Twinkles didn’t have a good time tonight, no moment in the limelight eh?’ I shook my head, paid the fare, told him to keep the change and wished him goodnight.
By the time I got into the house Twinks was furiously shedding his Stardust persona as he made his way upstairs. Stilettos and handbag lay abandoned in the hall. His blonde wig hung rather awkwardly from the living room door handle, he’d obviously dragged it off and hurled it in temper. His falsies lay in two indignantly quivering mounds on the stairs, along with earrings, necklace and bracelets and his evening dress lay on the landing in a puddle of scarlet satin along with his boa. I followed in his wake gathering everything together, picking up his matching bra and panties from outside the bathroom door before knocking on it and asking if he wanted a cup of tea? I was met with silence. I took his stuff into the bedroom, putting his panties in the laundry hamper, hanging up his dress, etc. Then I went back downstairs to make myself some tea, while he cleansed, toned and moisturised. I was hoping that the process would calm him down a bit and we could talk about the situation rationally. Taking my tea upstairs I waited for him. I heard the bathroom door open, heard his footsteps pad across the landing, bypass our room and enter the guestroom whumping the door closed behind them in a way that clearly said ‘screw you, Tarn Swan!’
We were not going down that road! I’d been there in our early days when we were still trying to balance our relationship so it worked for both of us. That kind of action never brought balance. How could it, with him miserable in one room and me miserable in another? All that happened was that words got left unsaid, resentments built and distance opened between us. I’d vowed never again. It was one of our agreements. I had no objection to him being as mad as hell at me. After all, I got mad at him, but he could be as mad as hell in the same room and the same bed, within easy reach of me should he decide, in the cool light of dawn, that I was a life species worth hugging after all. A small expanse of mattress is much easier to cover than lengths of bedroom floors and landing with closed doors in between. I’d known couples, like my parents, for whom the doors remained closed never to be opened again.
Marching into the guest room I flung back the sheet, firmly took his hand and hauled him back to our bedroom where I bent him across the bed and thoroughly smacked his bare bottom for breaking our agreement about not cold shouldering each other after a difference of opinion. He was wound up enough for the spanking to make him cry almost immediately after commencement, but I kept on with it making sure that I put enough heat and sting into his buttocks to make an impression.
It was not the way I would have chosen the evening to go. I’d hoped for something lighter and more celebratory. I silently cursed Cherie Pie and her London idea and then just as silently added a thankful prayer that Twinks did have work commitments on a Saturday, as given the recent happenings in the Capital I wasn’t keen on the idea of him going there. It set me wondering whether that was the real reason I’d put the kybosh on him taking the day off work. Was I being over-controlling and mollycoddling him for fear of what might happen?
I decided it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have interfered if Twinkles had the day off work legitimately. It was for him to decide his social activities and to calculate the risks involved in pursuing them. That said and given the nature of our relationship, if I considered that there was a tangible threat and I had legitimate concerns for his safety in the face of that threat, then regardless of anything else I had the right to say he couldn’t go. He’d consented to my having that authority. It’s difficult knowing what to do sometimes. How do you keep the balance of power from tipping over into a one sided tyranny and I don’t just mean my tyranny. He can be tyrannical in his own way too.
Getting into bed I stroked his back, trying to make him acknowledge the reasons behind my having said no. I reminded him of some facts. There were only 3 of them at work at the moment. He’d groused about it all week, about how hard it had been to manage, how much harder it was going to be on a busy Saturday. I asked would he really be able to enjoy himself knowing that he’d left just two people struggling to cope? At least with three in the shop there was an outside chance of them all getting a break for tea or lunch at some point. I also reminded him that his boss wouldn’t be happy about him taking time off and he was due for a review soon. Besides as assistant manager he had responsibilities and an example to set. It was a matter of conscience. Surely he could see that?
I knew I was going on a bit, but I did feel it was important to make him look at the wider picture and not obscure it with his desire to do what he wanted to do. His response was to glare at me over his shoulder and say in a cloying, simpering voice, and I quote: ‘now, remember, Pinocchio, be a good boy. And always let your conscience be your guide…’ then he snarled, I didn’t realise I was shacked up with the frigging Blue Fairy!
Whipping back the sheet I gave his saucy backside several firm slaps and told him to go to sleep. There’s no talking to him when he’s entrenched in a mood like that. He was still in a hissy mood on Saturday morning, saying he’d prefer to get the bus to work. I said fine, go ahead, he could get the bus to work if it would make him feel better. I was in a no win situation. I was selfish, not only had I refused to allow him to go to London, but I was now making him get a bus to work when he didn’t even know the times or service numbers? I didn’t bother to reply. Grabbing my car keys in one hand and his hand in the other I bundled him into the car and drove him to work as usual.
I hoped that by the time I picked him up he would be in a better mood. He wasn’t. They’d had a horrendously busy day, plus he’d gotten a roasting from his boss for having passed a cheque transaction during the week without getting the card validated. It turned out to be stolen and the cheque had bounced. All in all he’d had a rotten day. I offered to take him out to dinner to cheer him up, somewhere nice, his choice. He didn’t want to go out to dinner, he wanted to go to London, but it was too late. I lost patience and told him it was time he stopped sulking and accepted the situation and my decision.
My mother arrived on the scene at that point. She’d called by to tell us she was going to have to retract the offer of Sunday lunch, as Priscilla had invited her away for the weekend to attend a TV gathering at a swish country hotel in Lincolnshire. She was both excited and nervous. Excited because this was the first time that Priscilla had invited her to go away with him to a big event like this, and she felt it signalled another step in their relationship, and nervous because she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. It’s a popular and regular event for transvestites, married and single, and their wives and partners. They cover topics like deportment, and have grooming and makeover seminars, as well as just socialising and talking about their experiences and generally having a nice time in a friendly, accepting atmosphere.
Twink’s simmering sour mood saw an opportunity to come to the boil when he discovered that drag queens were not permitted to attend the event, as they were considered not to dress or behave in a socially appropriate and authentic female manner. He began to rant on about it being bad enough that society in general judged and excluded, but it was coming to something, when those who should know better, started to do the same! He was disillusioned, that’s what he was, totally disillusioned. He was getting sick and tired of the effemiphobia being displayed by an increasing number of gay people who were trying to make everyone conform to a mode of sanitised gayness. Gay Fascism, that’s what it was. Where was
it all going to end, with macho gays marching in columns down the Champs-Elysee pronouncing their homo superiority? He thought that at least the cross dressing community would stick together, but no, they were just the same as everyone else. They were small minded and parochial, condemning their sisters for not conforming to an ACCEPTABLE cross-dressing code! It was scandalous! What the hell had happened to solidarity and tolerance for diversity? From where he was standing it was fast diminishing and certain sectors of the queer community were being marginalized, mauled and shunned, and by their own people. He got totally carried away with his own rhetoric at that point and said he was going to gather together a group of sisters and picket the hotel in question, demanding that drag queens be recognised as equal to other cross dressers and not discriminated against for wearing bigger hair and higher heels. Then he flounced off, saying he never thought he’d see the day when his own partner and mother-in-law turned against him.
Mum, understandably, was completely confused and a bit upset. I told her not to worry because he was just in one of his Wuthering Heights moods and looking for things to have a drama about. I assured her that I wouldn’t let him anywhere near Lincolnshire with a protest placard. I wished her a happy weekend, while thinking it must be a rather confusing event, with everyone dressed as women, a bit like a lesbian’s convention. I also couldn’t help wondering whether there was jealousy if a husband looked more attractive than his wife when dolled up?
As soon as mum left I went in search of my feather-ruffled beloved, discovering him tapping aggressively on the computer keyboard. He was composing a letter to Peter Tatchell, telling him that it was his duty, as someone who had set themselves up as a spokesman for gay rights and equality, to frigging well look into the frigging discrimination and lack of equality that drag queens had to put up with, from both the straight and GLBT communities, in fact from everyone on the frigging planet. I suggested he might like to consider deleting the bad language as it devalued the point he was trying to put across. He gave me an angry look and said he knew why I was being so mean to him, it was because I didn’t want him to be a drag queen. I was trying to stop him doing what he enjoyed. I was queenophobic, just like so many others, he felt totally betrayed.