Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  Karen was having one of those explosive times of the month episodes and Paul had decided that cowardice was the better part of valour and had cleared out of the war zone with Dominic in the hope that normal service would have resumed by the time he returned home. Twinkles told him that he ought to be ashamed, leaving the mother of his child feeling not only under siege from the evil hormones that were swamping her, but neglected and unprotected by the man who had professed to love her until death did them part. Paul said he did love her, but she was scary when possessed by the hormone demons and he’d feared for his manhood, which she had threatened with a vegetable peeler. Twinkles suggested he buy flowers to woo and calm the savage beast that had taken possession of Karen, but Paul pulled a face, saying he wasn’t a flower kind of guy. Twinks wasn’t having any of that. Taking him firmly by the arm he began dragging him towards the flower section, telling him that he obviously needed a few lessons in grumpy lover taming from the Gay Guru.

  By the time we headed for the checkouts Paul was in possession of a bouquet of flowers, a bottle of Sparkling Wine and a box of Belgian chocolates. I could almost hear his credit card whimpering. Twinkles then added insult to his financial injury by standing at the end of the checkout as the goods came through and squealing mischievously, ‘oh, Paul sweetie, you’ve bought me all my favourite things. My, you are hoping for something special later on aren’t you?’ Poor Paul, he was scarlet faced and obviously praying that none of his mates from the Rugby Club were in the store. He finally cracked when Twinks, cradling the bouquet in his arms, stopped a passing couple and simpered, ‘look what my boyfriend has just bought me, isn’t it lovely and romantic. I think he might be getting ready to pop the question.’ He then fluttered his eyelashes at Paul and blew him several exaggerated kisses. Turning to the woman who was standing behind us in the queue Paul asked if he could borrow her stick of French bead? She gave a bemused nod and he snatched it from her trolley, asked the grinning checkout operator to charge it to him, and then proceeded to smartly whack Twinkles across the backside with it, telling him that if he didn’t shut up he was going to kill him, and furthermore if Karen failed to be impressed and calmed, he was going to bill him for everything, including the bread. Dominic adored the sight of daddy bashing Twinkles with the bread and joyfully clapped his little hands. I sent Twinkles to get another loaf to replace the one that Paul had hijacked from the customers trolley.

  We treated Paul to a cup of coffee and a cake in the café to make up for teasing him. Because the café was busy and all the available baby highchairs were in use, Twinkles sat Dominic on his lap while Paul drank his coffee. We were chatting and generally enjoying ourselves when I became aware of someone approaching the table. I glanced up and froze with sick dismay as I recognised Twinkles’ grandfather. A woman, whom I assumed was his daughter and therefore Twinkles’ mother, was accompanying him. Twinkles saw her first and a look flashed across his face, one of shocked surprise followed by eager hope. A smile was born, and then died as she turned her eyes away from him. Then he saw his grandfather and his face blanched. As ever I was shocked by the way life drained away from him when in the presence of that man. He dwindled like a candle flame getting ready to die.

  The old bastard ignored both Twinkles and I and targeted Paul. Lifting his stick he jabbed it at him, asking if he were the father of the baby. Paul didn’t know what was going on and confirmed that he was indeed the father. He then sat open mouthed as the old man told him that he ought to be horsewhipped for allowing his child to be endangered by wicked company. He stabbed the stick at Twinkles, informing Paul and the rest of the café that he was a shameful pervert, a man who revelled in lewd practices and who would undoubtedly defile and corrupt his son. I had a dizzying urge to grab the stick and drive it down the throat of its malevolent owner, but of course that wasn’t an option. I did push it away from Twinkles though. Standing up I quietly told him that he’d said his nasty piece and he could now leave. Paul leapt in at that point, his face once again red while in our company, but with anger on our behalf this time. I don’t know who you are, he said, but these are my friends and my son’s godparents and I couldn’t be more proud of that fact, so fuck off and mind your own business you mad old sod. Well, it was succinct enough and they got the message.

  When we parted company with Paul, he put his arms around Twinkles and hugged him, telling him you could choose your friends, but your family was something you had no control over and not to let what had happened get him down. Paul isn’t a male hugging male sort of man, so for him to do that was really sweet. It did get Twinkles down though. He’s spent most of this afternoon crying. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like that. He’s essentially a good person, he’s sweet and funny and loving. How can they reject him so cruelly? Even now, after all they’ve done if they were to ask he would still be willing to love them. It breaks my heart because I know they never will. I hate to see him in this kind of pain because there is nothing I can do that will remove it. I feel powerless. It’s sad how easily a day can begin with laughter and then end in tears. I suppose that’s why we really do have to make the most of the times when laughter and goodwill are in the ascendancy.

  14th August 2005:

  Cross Stitch

  When I went to pick Twinkles up from work on Friday, Barbara, his workmate, told me that if he wasn’t in a better mood when he came back from holiday then she and the rest of the staff were handing in their notices because working with him had been a bloody nightmare. He hadn’t had a pleasant word for anyone for days. They were all sick of him storming around. I’d given what I hoped was a non-committal, yet not discounting smile, while keeping to myself the fact that he’d been exactly the same at home and my own patience was stretched to breaking point.

  Of course I knew what was behind his foul mood. The incident in the coffee shop last Sunday thoroughly knocked his equilibrium. I tried and tried encouraging him to talk about it, but he refused, claiming he was just fine and I was to stop making it bigger than it was. His actions told another story. He snapped and snarled, grumbled and complained and found fault with everything, especially me. I was getting on his nerves. If I kissed him he complained I was chafing his skin because I hadn’t shaved properly. If I tried to cuddle him I was crowding him. If I didn’t try I was neglecting him. At night I snored and kept him awake, this from the man who can snore for Britain. My trainers were disgusting and they made the hall smell, would I kindly keep them outside in the shed.

  My bathroom habits came in for some heavy criticism. All the hair in the shower drain was mine. I always left the toothpaste messy and the towels damp and when I did what nature demanded, I turned the bathroom into the equivalent of a radiation site i.e. a total no-go area. The implication being that he smelled of roses and I smelled of manure.

  He hates our house. It’s too small and old fashioned. He wanted to move, or at least have a halfway decent kitchen put in and why had I insisted on painting the living room such a foul colour. It was giving him migraine and he wanted it changed immediately.

  The bloody weather was shit and why did it do nothing but rain in this God forsaken country. Wednesday on the other hand was too hot, it gave him a headache and by the way I stank of B.O. and was making him feel sick to his stomach. I’d just finished mowing two lawns and trimming up the hedges that he’d mutilated in his topiary frenzy, so it was hardly surprising that I was exuding a manly odour. It was the remark that broke this particular camel’s back. I took exception to it and told him to take his bad manners up to bed, because I’d had enough of them. I was more than willing to make allowances in the circumstances, but I wasn’t going to be abused out of hand. He stamped all the way up the stairs so I brought him back down and made him go up them again. He stamped even harder, so again I brought him down and on the third attempt he managed to ascend them in a manner I approved of.

  Getting back to Friday. I suggested that as he was in a less than convivial mood, it might be best if we sta
yed in rather than venture out to the PP. He accused me of trying to ruin his social life and said that if I wanted to stay in, I could stay in, but he was going out, thank you very much, dearie. I was tempted at that point to turn into a heavy-handed Dom and say he couldn’t go, but I refrained, telling myself that dressing up and going out might make him feel better. So out we went and it was absolutely miserable.

  He didn’t want to dance with me because the music was rubbish. The cabaret spot was pathetic. Cherie Pie was singing off key, and who for the love of Christmas, had told her that she looked good in that yellow frock and feather headdress, because she didn’t. She looked like Foghorn Leghorn the puffed up rooster, or old boiler in her case. Moreover, Rick the barman had bad-breath, the beer was warm and the wine was crap. Lulu, who was sitting at our table, finally lost patience and asked him if he was due a fucking period, to which Natalie, sitting at the next table, gleefully quipped, ‘don’t you mean the menopause, dear. She looks old enough in that dated retro rag she’s wearing.’

  The glass of red wine that Twinkles had been whining about did not go well with the pale blue gown that Natalie was wearing and the latter was effectively ruined. Natalie, understandably, was very angry, but I managed to catch her fist before it ploughed into Twinkles’ face. Twinkles then stormed off and I apologised to Natalie, or by that point Kevin, his persona having slipped with annoyance and told him that we’d pay to have the dress cleaned and if it failed to clean then we’d pay for a replacement. I offered him the cost of a taxi home so he could change and come back, but he said he’d borrow a stage costume from one of the chorus girls.

  All in all I regretted my decision not to play the heavy-handed Dom. I wished I’d put him over my knee and smacked his arse until he cried. It might have helped release some of the tension he was hiking around with him. Going out had been a waste of effort. Twinks’ mood was fouler than ever and he’d upset and offended his friends. He tried to brazen it out, claiming that he’d spilled the wine accidentally and that Natalie ought to consider anger management, as she flew off the handle at the drop of a hat. He knows and I know that accidents do happen, and we both knew that hadn’t been one of them. Natalie’s dress didn’t look like it had come off a British Home Stores bargain rail. I told him that the cleaning or replacement of it was coming out of his personal money, and not out of our joint account, which was verging on bankrupt after all the recent demands on it.

  I also told him that he owed Natalie an apology and it wasn’t a negotiable subject. He said he’d apologise to Kevin, but he wasn’t apologising to that bitch. I said that seeing as it was Kevin’s feminine face he’d been obnoxious to, he could make the apology to it. He said I was being pedantic and anyway Natalie had insulted him first. I pointed out that he frequently insulted Natalie first and while being bitchy was part of drag, throwing glasses of wine and fisticuffs wasn’t, certainly not in my rulebook anyway. His attitude was one of not giving a toss, but I could tell that it was as artificial as the boobs he had pushed down the front of his dress. He knew he’d been far from nice and he was ashamed of himself, but just wasn’t ready to admit it.

  As soon as we got home I sent him to remove his paraphernalia and get ready for bed. Pouring myself a very large drink I sat staring at the space that had once been occupied by our television sets. When he came downstairs he was wearing a joke t-shirt that he’d bought for me as a comfort gift, shortly after we started getting the hate mails. It reads: 555…A Lesser Evil. He looked at me sadly and asked if he’d been very wicked? I nodded. He said he was sorry and did I forgive him? I said yes, but I was still going to buy him a plain t-shirt and as punishment for his foul temper I was going to make him embroider in cross-stitch on it: 777…Worse Than The Devil Himself. He gave me a smile, the first in a week. It was like being released from purgatory and I pulled him down onto my lap. We didn’t say anything. We just sat cuddling and sharing my drink while watching the space where the telly used to be.

  He finally opened up regarding last Sunday. At first he hadn’t seen his grandfather, just his mother. He’d been excited because he thought she was coming over to see him and to say hello and he was going to show off Dominic and ask how his sisters were, and a hundred other things that flashed through his mind in those few seconds before he saw the old man. He then felt so foolish and so humiliated for allowing himself that moment of hopeful excitement that he could cheerfully have slapped his own face. I offered my opinion. He had absolutely no need to feel foolish or humiliated, he’d done nothing wrong. The only wrong was the wrong done to him. He apologised again for being a trial all week and said he’d make it up to me. I insisted that he had nothing to make up, we were partners and we took the rough with the smooth. He gave me one of his drop dead sexy smiles, guided my hand up his bare thigh and under his t-shirt and said, ‘I’ll be smooth if you’ll be rough!’ It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

  16th August 2005:

  Pink Rubber Fetish

  I incurred Twinkles’ wrath this morning and as a result I’m finding sitting something less than a comfortable experience on account of having a bruised backside. Twinks turned heavy-handed Dom, surely not? Let me explain.

  We’d just finished breakfast and I was clearing the table and stacking all the things that needed to be washed by the side of the sink, including a Flora margarine tub whose contents we’d used up. Twinks was washing up. He’s a sight to behold on a summer’s morning, standing at the sink wearing nothing but his pink mules and a pair of pink rubber washing up gloves, shaking his thing to whatever music is playing on the CD player. He washed up the plates and mugs, but dropped the empty margarine tub into the kitchen bin. I immediately remonstrated with him and fished it back out, dropping it into the washing up water to be washed, saying it might come in useful. In doing so I touched a nerve that had obviously been growing in sensitivity for some time.

  He glared at me. ‘Useful is it, exactly how useful?’ Before I could make reply he trip-trapped across the kitchen and flung open one of the cupboard doors. With one pink rubber clad hand clamped firmly to a hip and the other flung out like a game show glamour girl indicating a prize, he said waspishly, ‘you mean useful like these? So useful in fact they have never been used and have been taking up a growing amount of shelf space for years?’ I was forced to admit there were rather a lot of them. I hadn’t realised quite how many. I got the Twinkles’ glare again followed by a tirade about having to have an extension built just to house my collection of questionably useful empty margarine tubs.

  I admitted, testily, that okay perhaps there was no need to save the margarine tub we’d emptied at breakfast and dropped it back into the waste bin. Did this appease my cross little glamour puss? Did it heck. He was in full flow and it would take a muzzle to silence him. What was it about empty margarine tubs anyway? It amounted to a fetish. Was I secretly planning on constructing a life size model of Buckingham Palace from them when I’d collected enough? I (it was claimed) complained enough about his bad habits. Well this was one of my habits that drove him right up the wall. He wasn’t putting up with it any longer, was that absolutely clear? I nodded and humbly promised not to save any more empty margarine tubs. It wasn’t enough. He wanted the ones in the cupboard throwing out, now, that very moment. I was aghast. They represented years of prudent washing and saving. He was adamant. They had to go. He hated to disillusion me but they had never been useful, they never would be useful. I had to face that fact and let them go with dignity. By way of softening the blow he said I could keep four, just on the off chance they might come in useful. I begged for six, a neat half dozen, but he stood firm. The choice was four or none at all.

  To be truthful I have no idea how or why I developed a compulsion to save empty margarine tubs. It must be some genetic kink stemming from my more frugal Scottish ancestry. Getting rid of them turned out to be really rather liberating. It was like casting off a shackle.

  Power was very obviously an aphrodisiac for Twinks. Afte
r I’d obediently cleared the cupboard of all but four of the tubs, he displayed himself against the kitchen table and requested that I worship his totem for a change and do a bit of bottoming. He looked so wonderfully wanton, sporting nothing but an erection and a pair of pink rubber gloves that my passions were at once inflamed and I hastened to comply with his orders. He lay on his back on the kitchen table and I lubed all appropriate parts and squatted astride him, impaling myself on his totem as it were. In the heat and height of passion he gripped my rear with his hands in order to aid my movements and keep his cock buried more deeply inside me. I used my own hands, or one of them, to aid and abet my own pleasure. Once the fireworks had stopped exploding I smiled happily into his flushed face and he smiled happily back. Then his smile froze slightly and a puzzled look came over his face, as he tried to take his hands away from my buttocks and found he couldn’t. The rubber gloves had become sticky with our combined body heat and had bonded to my skin. In effect we were well and truly glued together.

  Panic set in. Twinkles was terrified to tug too hard in case he pulled away a layer of my skin along with the gloves. He had terrible visions of the police breaking in because no one had seen us for days and discovering us bonded together by a pair of rubber gloves. The story would make The News of the World and be promoted as some weird gay BDSM ritual that had gone wrong. We’d never be able to show our faces in public again. I was edging towards panic myself. Apart from anything else my knees and shins were aching from their contact with the hard tabletop. I was longing to stand up and stretch my legs. I told him to stay calm, take deep breaths and try to manoeuvre his hands out of the gloves. Thankfully he managed to do so and we successfully uncoupled.