by Swan, Tarn
I really love Twinkles, but sometimes I could cheerfully gag and chloroform him just for some peace and quiet. I told him I was sorry he had missed sharing an outing with his friends, but it was done and I didn’t want to hear another word about it. I said I had no desire to stop him doing what made him happy, and it really hurt me to hear him say such things. He immediately burst into tears and said he was sorry for being a selfish bitch and carrying on and he hadn’t meant to hurt me, sometimes he just got carried away with his own feelings and forgot that I had feelings too. When he’d calmed down a bit, he rang mum and apologised for being so melodramatic. He wished her a nice weekend and told her to make sure that Priscilla didn’t wear white shoes with black tights as she had last week at the PP, leaving many fashion sensitive people traumatised and in need of powerful beverages to numb the pain.
He was sweet, cuddly and in the mood to be comforted after that, and I was more than willing to provide that comfort. He’s dramatic by nature. He can’t help it. Life with Twinks is never going to be calm and quiet. I knew that from the moment I first saw him wearing a frock and high heels, but I wouldn’t swap my life for anything. I’m addicted to him.
6th August 2005:
Topiary Or Not Topiary That Is The Question
Twinkles and I have been engaged with issues this week, issues pertaining once again to carelessness and lack of forethought on his part. He claims that I suffer from terminal fussiness and he doesn’t know how he’s lived with me all these years and remained sane. He reckons that I’m obsessed with piffling details and I need to loosen up a bit, before I have a heart attack. I retorted that the only reason I was likely to suffer a heart attack would be on account of him and his antics. I also said that what he terms my fussiness is actually basic commonsense and a regard for safety, my own as well as everyone else’s and its something he needs to practice.
Take last Saturday evening, weather wise it was foul with high winds and torrential rain. While most of us were worrying about whether the guttering and drains could take the strain, Twinks was worrying about the ruinous effect the weather would have on the dress and shoes he was planning to wear to the PP that evening if it didn’t ease up. My dad phoned while we were preparing dinner and I asked Twinkles to keep an eye on the chops cooking under the grill while I talked to him. He was too busy keeping an eye on the weather outside to keep an eye on the grill and consequently the chops burned to a crisp and set off the smoke alarm. He claimed it was my fault for talking too long with my dad and what kind of normal dad had long conversations with their gay son anyway? Normal dads were quietly hostile and in denial about their son’s sexuality, not chatting on the bloody phone about this, that and the other every five minutes. I refused to take any proportion of blame. I’d asked him to keep an eye on the grill and he hadn’t. It was another example of his carelessness. We could easily have had a fire. We ended up having fish fingers for dinner, which he then had the cheek to gripe about.
Then, as if he hadn’t caused havoc enough for one evening, when I bent to get a couple of plates out of a cupboard, he got a couple of mugs out of the cupboard above my head and left it open. Consequently when I straightened up my head made sharp contact with the bottom edge of the cupboard door. It hurt and I dropped and broke the plates with the shock. The subsequent cut also bled a lot, as head wounds even minor ones are wont to do and Twinkles, who can’t stand the sight of blood, promptly fainted, dropping and breaking the mugs in the process. The kitchen floor was littered with more broken crockery than a Greek Taverna that catered to the tourist trade. When he came round he was very contrite and so upset that it was hard to be annoyed with him, though believe me I did try.
I solved his anxiety about the weather spoiling whatever he’d been planning on wearing by telling him we were staying in. I had a headache, a tender scalp and blood encrusted hair and I just wasn’t in the mood for partying. He was going to be too busy to go out. Busy? Yes, busy writing an article on paying due care and attention to safety while in the kitchen. Naturally enough he wasn’t pleased, though he didn’t argue, well not as such, settling instead for primly telling me that I ought to write lines or wash out my mouth, because the language I’d spouted when my head made contact with the cupboard had been a disgrace. He’d heard people with Tourettes Syndrome swearing less. I said that in the circumstances I was perfectly entitled to swear. He played the wronged martyr all evening. I was being too heavy handed and it wasn’t fair to discipline him for what was effectively an unfortunate accident. I fully acknowledged that it had been an accident and that there had been no intent to injure me or cause yet more breakages, just as there had been no intention to set off the smoke alarm by sacrificing the chops. However, I pointed out that the accidents wouldn’t have happened if he’d bothered to give a little bit of thought and attention to what he was doing.
On Sunday afternoon, mum and Priscilla came over for tea. The weather had cleared up beautifully and I set the table on the patio and we had tea outside. It was very much a traditional genteel, cucumber sandwich, best china and cream cake sort of affair. I thought it might cheer mum up, as she’s had a heavy cold all week. All was going well. Then to everyone’s utter fright and confusion Twinkles suddenly leapt to his feet and attacked poor Priscilla with a tea towel, swiping him so hard across the face that his glasses were knocked flying into a flowerbed. The fresh cream chocolate éclair he had been in process of eating was splattered not only across his face, but also across my mother’s face, seeing as she was sitting next to him. In addition mum was left holding nothing but the handle of the china cup she had been drinking from. The rest of the cup was residing in the flowerbed along with Priscilla’s specs. I didn’t escape unscathed either. I was drenched in the contents of mum’s cup. My new t-shirt and clean jeans were covered in brown tea stains. Honestly! I could have smacked his legs for him.
Apparently he’d spotted a wasp hovering above Priscilla’s head and panicking lest it come in his direction, he had swatted at it, but missed. He sheepishly apologised for his terrible aim and its consequences. Fortunately Priscilla’s glasses were fine, but the cup had to be put in the bin, along with the other weekend casualties of Twinkles’ carelessness. Priscilla accepted Twinks apology with smiling good grace. I suppose he’s learned to cultivate patience and goodwill from his years working as a teacher. Mum, on the other hand, grabbed the tea towel and beat Twinks about the head and shoulders with it to see how he liked it. Thank God she never went into politics. With her tit for tat take on life we’d still be at war with France and the rest of Europe.
Later, when they’d gone home and we were sitting watching television together, Twinks’ shoulders suddenly began to shake and he put his hands over his face. I was concerned, thinking that perhaps my admonishments regarding the incident been too harsh and he was crying. He was indeed crying, but not because my telling off had upset him. He was crying with laughter. He said he wished he could have videoed the look on all our faces as Priscilla’s specs flew off and his éclair exploded. He could have sold it to one of those video blooper shows on the television. It’s very hard to keep a straight face when someone is doubled over and all but incoherent with laughter. I ended up laughing with him, bad boy that he is.
Monday was his day off. To my utter dismay I came home from work to discover that the privet hedge surrounding the front garden had been vandalised. It was a horrible mess, thoroughly hacked about. I hurried into the house to ask Twinks what on earth had happened, halting in the kitchen to stare in disbelieve through the window. There he was doing a very poor imitation of Edward Scissor Hands. He was attacking the tall yew hedge that runs along the garden with an electric hedge trimmer. Let me add that it was a blazing hot day and he was wearing nothing but a baseball cap and a pair of tiny shorts that barely covered his cheeks. Furthermore he was balancing precariously on a long ladder in a pair of high-heeled sandals that tied Roman style around his ankles.
My blood ran cold and I felt fai
nt at the possibilities. It was like watching one of those Government safety advertisements, the type that set a scene and show you all the dangers inherent in it. He was standing on an unsupported ladder, wearing totally unsuitable footwear, operating a highly dangerous electrical gadget to chop at a hedge that was spitting out leaves and bits of twig into a face whose eyes were unprotected by any kind of safety goggles. I didn’t know what to do. My instinct was to step outside and angrily bellow at him. I dismissed this, considering it might give him a fright and cause him to tumble from the ladder and cut off one or more of his body parts with the trimmer. In the end I cautiously switched off the electricity and then galloped into the garden, as he descended to investigate why his tool of mutilation had stopped working. Taking it from his hands I laid it safely on the grass, gave a sigh of relief and quietly asked him what the fucking hell he thought he was playing at?
Topiary. He’d watched a programme on morning television about it and had been impressed by the sheer artistry involved. He reckoned it looked easy enough and decided to have a go, because after all he is very artistic…by the way, had I noticed the lovely symmetrical set of fantail doves he’d cut into the front hedge? My reply is unrepeatable here. I was fuming and not just because he’d butchered some perfectly nice hedging. We had words, oh yes we had words. He took refuge in sullenness, claiming I was so rigid I could pass an audition for the role of the rusted up Tin Man in a stage version of the Wizard Of Oz and not need a frigging costume or any choreography coaching. What exactly was wrong with me, why was I always fussing lately? Did I need hormone therapy? After all, I HADN’T come home to find him scattered in various parts across the back garden, as a result of getting a piece of twig in his eye, slipping in his high heels and plunging from the ladder with what amounted to a chain saw in his hands and nobody home to switch it off and call an ambulance!
One thing saved him from getting the spanking I thought he thoroughly deserved for his bloody reckless actions and that thing was sunburn. Since my run in with skin cancer I’m more fanatical about skincare in the sun. I couldn’t believe that he’d worked outside for hours wearing next to nothing and not bothered to put sunscreen on. Had he not listened to a word the consultant had said about sun damage? His face was a bit pink, but because his day moisturiser contains sunscreen, it had saved it from being too burned. His unprotected back and legs had caught the worst of it, especially across his shoulders and the tender skin on the backs of his thighs. They were just about nuclear and any heat I applied to his backside would go unnoticed in comparison. I made him take a couple of aspirin, which is an excellent treatment for sunburn as long as you’re not allergic, and then plastered him in aloe vera lotion and sent him upstairs to the bedroom to lie down on his stomach. He was in discomfort for several days afterwards, which was punishment in itself. He admitted he had been foolish and said he was sorry. He hadn’t given a thought to anything but doing what he wanted to do. I issued a warning. One more accident resulting from him not thinking before acting and I would give him a spanking he’d never forget.
I was having a nice refreshing shower on Thursday evening when I heard a tremendous crash followed by a panicked scream. Leaping out of the shower I grabbed a towel to cover my modesty and ran downstairs, anxiously calling his name. He met me in the hall, wide eyed and pale faced. Launching himself into my damp arms he babbled, ‘ you’ll never believe what just happened. I was sitting reading a magazine when something grabbed my ankle, pulled off my shoe and hurled it through the television screen. We’ve got a poltergeist!’
He was right. I didn’t believe it. I grimly surveyed the fluffy pink mule lying amongst the innards of the television set. The set that had been bought to replace the television that he’d broken when he skipped a mug of tea through it. It had been an expensive set, more so than the last one and now it was ruined. I was furious and demanded to know what had really happened. He insisted it had been a poltergeist and that we’d have to call in an exorcist to cleanse the house of paranormal activity. It had been a very frightening experience for him, like being in a horror film. I was in no mood for his brand of creative accountancy. Taking hold of his arm I turned him sideway and landed several good smacks to his backside before towing him back upstairs with me and parking him firmly in a corner of the bedroom while I got dressed.
It turned out he’d felt a sudden yen to practice some high dance kicks and consequently his mule had flown off and smashed through the television screen. He gazed at me appealingly, saying it had been an accident, and he was sorry for lying about how it happened. He’d panicked because he knew I’d be madder than a baited badger when I saw what he’d done to the telly again, albeit accidentally, not on purpose, or in temper, but accidentally, it was an accidental accident. I accepted it had indeed been an accident and there had been no malice aforethought. In fact there had been no kind of forethought whatsoever and that was the problem. I reminded him that in the course of a week, he’d accidentally neglected the grill, all but brained me, assaulted my mother’s lady-gentleman friend, caused two plates, two mugs, an expensive china cup and my new t-shirt to be relegated to the dustbin of no return. He’d also horribly mutilated our hedging while risking life, limb and skin cancer and now, as a piece de resistance he’d seen off yet another television set. Our household insurance premiums were set to be the highest in history. They’d probably earn a mention in the Guinness Book Of Records.
I asked him if he would consider going on stage and doing high kicks in high-heeled mules such as he’d been wearing downstairs? He shook his head. I asked him to explain why. He did so. Because they weren’t anchored securely to his feet with straps and the moment he kicked his leg up they would fly off and brain someone onstage, or stun a member of the audience. Exactly. So could he please explain why he had decided to practice high kicks in unsuitable footwear, in a confined space, with lots of breakable objects around? He confessed that he had been reading something in The Stage about Chorus Girls being needed for a touring production of Hello Dolly and had decided to hone up his high kicking technique in case the production company held auditions locally. In other words he hadn’t thought about anything other than doing what he wanted to do at that moment in time. He had simply acted on thoughtless impulse, yet again.
I don’t consider myself to be an unduly harsh disciplinarian, but it seemed that he was badly in need of a sharp reminder about the consequences of thoughtless and careless behaviour. None of my words had made any difference. They’d gone in one ear and out of the other. I sent him downstairs to get the wooden rice paddle that I’d bought to replace the wooden spoon he’d slipped into Gill’s mother’s handbag after the dildo trick. It was sturdier than the spoon, flatter and broader and thus far it had only been used for its intended purpose of stirring rice dishes. Twinkles eyes were bright with tears when he came back up and held it out. I told him to remove his shorts. This is something I rarely do when punishing him. Depending on how he’s dressed, I usually take down his trousers or pull up his skirts. He knew being told to take down his own shorts was a sign that he was in a serious discipline situation, which caused his eyes to shine even brighter with unshed tears. They overflowed when I ordered him to remove his briefs and bend over my knee. Because his thighs were still a little bit pink from the sunburn I concentrated all of the spanking on his buttocks. I spanked him very hard, both with my hand and the rice paddle. Such sessions are very emotional and we were both a little muted for some time afterwards. I took us both to bed where we lay quietly together, finding comfort, calm and balance again. It was a conclusion to a rather long and frenetic week.
Time to lay down my pen. We’re going out and the taxi will be here soon. Twinks gets very hoity toity if I’m not immediately on hand to escort him to his carriage, as befits a lady.
7th August 2005:
Coffee And Hate
We often shop on a Sunday morning when it tends to be quieter and this morning we duly trundled off to Tesco and whom s
hould we see there, but Paul, with Dominic. Twinkles spotted him first, drawing my attention to the fact that Paul seemed to be trying to look as if he wasn’t with Dominic’s pushchair. It was true. Paul is a modern kind of dad in every respect, but when it comes to pushing his son’s pushchair he has this odd little quirk. He walks beside it, pushing it with one hand held at arms length, rather than standing directly behind it and pushing with both hands. I’ve noticed that quite a few men resort to this method of pushchair locomotion, almost like they’re embarrassed to be seen it. Twinkles scared the wits out of him, and me, by suddenly bellowing: ‘excuse me. You in the red t-shirt, I don’t want to alarm you, but a small child in a pushchair appears to be stalking you. Do you want me to alert Security?’ Paul turned redder than his t-shirt, especially when the people around him started laughing. Twinkles is really rather naughty sometimes. As if he hadn’t embarrassed poor Paul enough, he then went over to him and flung his arms around him, kissed him ostentatiously and cooed, ‘oh darling, so the rumours are true, you did have our love child. Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant? I would have done the decent thing and made an honest man of you.’ Paul glared at him and told him if he didn’t behave he’d dump him in the nearest deep freeze and lock down the lid.