by Swan, Tarn
He was still in a fine old temper when we got home. I told him to go and get changed and I’d make him a nice cup of coffee and he could tell me what had happened at work to put him in such a ratty mood. No chance. Snatching up the phone he said nothing had happened at work, he didn’t want coffee and he was going to call uptight Gill and my miserable Pater and tell them exactly what he thought of their underhand behaviour. I told him to put the phone down immediately or there would be trouble. He smashed the phone back into the cradle and stormed into the kitchen. Snatching the wedding card I’d bought up from the table he hurled it across the kitchen. It landed in the sink which having water in it, didn’t do it much good. I was not pleased. He couldn’t understand what I was making such a fuss about. It was a horrible card. No one sent wedding cards with wedding bells on anymore. It was so old fashioned and pointless too, seeing as they hadn’t been married in a church. I should have bought one that read ‘congratulations on your secret, shoddy shitty shotgun wedding.’ My patience expired. Flipping up his suit jacket I smacked his trousered backside several times, telling him that if he didn’t check his temper we wouldn’t be going out that evening. He didn’t give a toss, because he didn’t want to go out, not with me anyway. I was a fucking domineering pig! I certainly wasn’t putting up with that attitude. I took his trousers down, put him over my knee and gave him a good spanking. Needless to say the PP was off the agenda.
After dinner, when I was washing up, he came and slipped his arms around my waist and apologised for being unpleasant. He’d a lousy day at work, made lousier when Barbara had confirmed that she’d finally got a place as a student nurse and would be leaving at the end of the month to begin her training. He felt mean because he should be glad for her, not pissed because he’d miss her company. Poor boy, he was thoroughly out of sorts with himself.
I stuck the champagne I’d bought for dad and Gill in the freezer to chill down, I’d buy a replacement later, ran a warm bubble bath, lit some candles and insisted Twinkles join me under the suds. Afterwards we curled up on the couch and watched Four Weddings And A Funeral while drinking the champagne. I asked him if he still wanted to marry me. He replied in the spirit of Hugh Grant saying abso-fucking-lutely, which made me laugh. He annoys me, he’s tiring, he’s often bad tempered, impatient and thoughtless. He’s vain, bitchy, has cold feet, he leaves the bathroom in a gruesome state and he’s often totally over the top. He’s also sweet, funny and sensitive. He’s essentially kind hearted and loving, he has a fantastic smile and beautiful eyes, and he makes wonderful chilli and lasagne. He makes me laugh, he’s a friend as well as a lover, he’s fantastic in bed and best of all, he’s mine.
15th September 2005:
Creation Of An Urban Myth
Twinkles managed to glue himself to a penis last night though not his own, or mine I hasten to add. While it’s true we like to experiment with our sex life I would never permit Twinkles to do anything that involved our combined genitalia and a tube of superglue. No, I assure you it wasn’t my appendage he was glued to. Let me explain. We were both a bit grumpy when we got home from work, rotten weather, heavy traffic, work stresses and a home décor disagreement had put us both out of sorts with life in general and with each other in particular. He wanted to have the kitchen restyled and had picked up a load of brochures on his lunch break. I knew why he was so keen. Teddy and Maurice had decided that instead of moving (there is a God and I love him) they would have alterations made to their current house starting with the kitchen. I have never felt a need to keep up with the Joneses, so why should I suddenly develop a need to keep up with Teddy and Maurice, besides, we couldn’t afford to. We had some extensive work done on the foundations last autumn followed by roof work, none of which were cheap or covered by insurance and our savings are still recovering. Twinkles casually mentioned getting a loan, as if it entailed no more than politely asking some nice lady or gentleman at the bank for a load of dosh that didn’t need paying back with vast amounts of interest. I wasn’t prepared to put us into debt just to satisfy his competitive and jealous streak. In my estimation the kitchen we have is perfectly adequate and nice. In short I said a very firm no and closed the subject.
As soon as we got indoors I headed for the shower. Standing under the hot stream of water I made an effort to massage the knots out of my neck and shoulders. I was hoping that by the time I was done Twinkles would have come to terms with my decision and we could kiss and make up and have dinner followed by a dirty night in. After showering I pulled on a pair of comfy old jeans and a t-shirt and went downstairs to see if Twinks had made a start on dinner. He hadn’t. He was in the living room sitting on a chair with a cushion on his lap and a strange expression on his face. I asked if he were sulking? He gave me a cold look and stated that he was just being quiet. Fair enough. I could live with the novelty of quiet. He was still in his work suit and tie and I suggested that he change and then we could decide what we wanted to eat. He didn’t feel like changing, he was quite comfortable as he was. Neither was he hungry. Him being quiet was looking more and more like sulking, or was it? I looked at him. His eyes had a slightly anxious look to them and his cheeks were beginning to flush.
I asked what was wrong? Nothing he said and why didn’t I just go and get myself something to eat and leave him in peace. Then I noticed that his right hand was concealed under the cushion on his lap and he seemed intent on keeping it covered. A suspicion flashed through my mind and I suddenly wondered if I’d disturbed him, how should I put this, petting the python? Not that he’s usually so shy about it. It didn’t make sense. He’d hardly seemed in the mood for sex, solo or otherwise when we’d got in. I pointed at the cushion on his lap and bluntly asked him what he was doing and did he need any help.
He suddenly burst into tears and said he knew what I was thinking and yes he did have a cock in his hand, but it wasn’t his own. It was David’s and he couldn’t put it down. He then whipped back the cushion to reveal his right hand, on the palm of which rested a phallus. I stared at it, and then looked towards the hearth where usually there stood a large alabaster facsimile of Michelangelo’s David. It had been a gift from my mother when she had visited Florence several years ago. God knows how she got it home. It weighed a ton. She’s a determined woman my mother. It wasn’t there. I turned back to Twinkles who pointed at the side of the chair he was sitting in. I walked over and there was David lying on his back gazing up at the ceiling sporting a vacant space where his equipment used to be. He’d been castrated. Twinkles turned his flat palm face down and I gasped slightly as the phallus stayed just where it was. It was like magic, though I couldn’t see The Magician’s Circle adding it to their repertoire of basic tricks to be learned. He wailed that he was glued to a cock and what was I going to do about it?
Him being stuck to a cock was apparently my fault (I might have guessed it would be) He had placed the pile of kitchen refurbishment catalogues on the coffee table and because I’d used too much polish the table was as slippery as ice. The catalogues had shot across the surface and off the other side and one of them had hit poor David in the groin, turning him into a eunuch. He knew I’d not believe that it was an accident, because I always thought the worst of him. He had tried to reunite David with his dick using superglue before I found out, only in his haste he had got glue on his hand and when he’d picked up the missing piece it had bonded to his skin and then he’d heard me coming downstairs. That was his version of events anyway. I’ll give you the translation: he had hurled the pile of brochures onto the coffee table in a bad temper and one of them had hurtled off and castrated the statue. He had panicked and tried to repair it before I noticed but was in too much of a panic to use the superglue sensibly and safely.
After scanning the Internet for information on how to remove superglue from skin we tried nail polish remover, something we have plenty off in this house, but to no avail. It didn’t dissolve the glue. Nor did soaking it in warm soapy water. He was well and truly bonded. In
the end, fearful that his skin was going to end up tearing, I whisked him down to A & E despite his protestations that it was too embarrassing to turn up with a willy stuck to his hand. We attracted a fair bit of attention. I don’t think there was a doctor or nurse or cleaner for that matter that didn’t poke their head into the cubicle where Twinkles and I were sitting. All you could hear in the corridor were explosive giggles. In the end Twinks was successfully detached from David’s scrotum by means of a mixture of mineral oil and Vaseline. He managed to salvage his dignity in part by delivering a series of jokes about gay men and Vaseline that had the attending doctor and nurse in fits. They thanked him for making their evening and said this would definitely be one of the cases that got annually reviewed at the staff Christmas Party. It would probably pass into urban myth like the tale of Richard Gere and the gerbil. In Twinks’ case the ornamental penis would evolve into a real one as the tale got re-told and exaggerated.
It was a relief to get home. Twinkles said he’d never been so glad to let go of a cock. His hand was a little bit sore and tingling, but otherwise okay. I told him that he ought to be very glad that it was his right hand that was sore and not mine, because if mine had been sore and tingling it would mean it had been in contact with his bare bottom and he would deserve it for throwing things in temper. He mentioned having another go at fixing the statue. I told him that if he so much as thought about using superglue again I’d welt his backside for sure. I glued it back on, but it just didn’t look the same. I mean Michelangelo’s David doesn’t exactly sport a huge erection to begin with, after all it’s the night before the fight with Goliath and he’s obviously a tad nervous. After my gluing efforts he somehow looked more flaccid than ever and I concluded that poor David was destined for the attic or the shed outside. We had an Indian Takeaway for supper and a few lagers. Afterwards, just as I was making amorous advances he suddenly saw the funny side of the situation and had a fit of the giggles. I couldn’t do a thing with him.
18th September 2005:
A Sudden Killing Instinct
I swear, as God is my witness, if Teddy taps my backside once more with his stick I will tear him limb from limb. Twinkles is tiptoeing around me very delicately, fully aware that I hold him responsible for the horror that my life has become. He is trying to woo me with sweet smiles and espresso coffee laced with brandy. This man is not for wooing. This man is fighting an Uma Thurman type instinct to kill, not only Bill, but anyone who so much as hums one of the songs from Grease, particularly Summer Nights. This man has had too much laced espresso coffee and is going to allow his ingratiating brat to guide him to bed and comfort him. Goodnight.
19th September 2005:
Dance Macabre
I have suffered my first rehearsal for the lip-synching contest I so foolishly allowed myself to become part of. Yesterday afternoon, Twinkles (dressed in a pink leotard with a short skirt, matching tights and lilac leg warmers) cleared the decks in the dining room and announced that Teddy and Maurice would be calling to put me through my paces. My heart sank into my boots and I wondered whether The French Foreign Legion had a local branch open for recruitment on a Sunday. I refused to even consider wearing a leotard or a set of legwarmers, opting for jogging bottoms and a t-shirt. All my most hideous nightmares were brought to realisation when I opened the front door to find Teddy standing there dressed like some 1930’s Royal Ballet Dance School mistress in a severe black dress that reached to his ankles. Hanging around his neck on a thin black ribbon was a large silver whistle and in his podgy little hand he clutched an ebony cane with a silver knob. Maurice had opted for one of those skin tight, black Lycra single piece leotards that scooped at the front to show off his hair encrusted chest and nipples. I was sore afraid.
All my instincts screamed flee, leave this place and find your mother she will protect you from these scary people. Falsifying a smile of welcome I gave them access to the house and after taking a deep breath closed the front door before my urge to run down the path got the better of me. I headed with leaden steps headed towards the dining room where Twinkles gave me a bright encouraging smile and told me to relax, as I was looking a bit stiff. I gave him a sour look while entertaining a brief fantasy of hanging him from the rafters by his legwarmers and beating him with a stick like a pink piñata.
To begin with Teddy lectured at length about how he expected a hundred and ten percent from all the team, but especially so from Twinks and I, as we were the leads. We had only the length of one song to impress the judges with our showmanship and ability to perfectly synchronise our lip movements to those of John Travolta and Olivia Newton John. Turning his beady eyes solely on me he told me that before I could even think about learning the dance routine that he and More- Reece had created to accompany the song, I needed to understand the basics of dance deportment, as he couldn’t help but notice that I moved like a graceless farm yacker wearing ill fitting Wellingtons. I politely refrained from pointing out that he tripped along like a jackbooted neo fascist fairy. While Maurice began teaching Twinkles the choreography he’d created for Sandy, I was handed over to Teddy for basic training. I was told to think of my body i.e. head, torso, hips and legs as a pile of boxes. I had to keep the pile neatly aligned or it would topple. The head, said Teddy using his stick to jab at my cranium, is the heaviest box and it was my goal to keep it poised and up, which meant not looking around, not looking down or I would pull the pile over. He then demonstrated some basic exercises and told me to copy them.
As I’ve said, I’m not one of life’s natural dancers and my instinct was to look down at my feet in much the way a novice typist is tempted to look down at the keyboard. To my indignation every time I did so Teddy sharply blew his whistle and told me off. Indignation quickly turned to barely concealed outrage when he also resorted to smartly tapping my backside with his stick, as well as blowing his whistle when I did something wrong. His strident voice snapped his disapproval: keep that head up, young man, shoulders down, back straight, relax, no, no, no, not like that, watch me, pay attention…he’d obviously missed his vocation as a slave driver.
In contrast to his partner’s vocal approach, Maurice’s approach to dance tuition was much more hands on, hands on Twinkles that is. One reason I couldn’t take note of where Teddy was telling me to place my feet in relation to the floor, was that I was too busy noting where Maurice was placing his hands in relation to Twinkles’ body. They seemed to spend more time lingering on his bottom than was strictly necessary in my opinion. I think it was an opinion that Teddy shared because at one point Maurice came a cropper after his partner’s cane ‘accidentally’ dead legged him, striking him hard behind the knees and causing him to crash to the floor like a ton of bricks. Maurice must have got the message because his hands behaved in a more circumspectly manner after that.
After two hours of continuous torture I declared that I had had enough for one day and retired to the kitchen to make refreshments. After drinking tea, eating biscuits and making suggestions as to how the kitchen could be improved (I could guess who had put him up to that) Teddy withdrew a video of Grease from his handbag and insisted we study it in detail and practice some lip movements. By the time they finally left my will to live had been seriously eroded. After their departure my beloved put his head straight in the lion’s mouth by turning to me with a beaming smile and saying, ‘I told you that you’d enjoy yourself didn’t I, shall we practice some more?’ My entire body ached, my head ached, my jaw ached, my ears ached from being nagged and criticised and my rump ached where Teddy’s audacious cane had tapped it. I hated John Travolta and I hated drag queens and their bizarre theatrical compulsions. Giving Twinkles a dark look I informed him that no I did not want to practice anymore. I was going to shower and when I came down I expected to find all evidence of my hellish day removed from my sight, including leotards, legwarmers and any trace of Grease.
I staggered upstairs to shower away all trace of my ordeal coming back downstairs to overhear Tw
inkles on the phone happily arranging another session with Commandant Fonteyn and Groping Nureyev. He took one look at my face, slammed down the phone and neatly sidestepping the swat I aimed at his bottom, scurried off to the kitchen to make me a nice cup of coffee, the first of several all liberally laced with grown ups Calpol or brandy as it’s better known.
News of my newfound theatrical proclivity has spread far and wide and people are already bidding for tickets for the big event. Karen and Paul asked if they could come and watch me rehearse. I said no. Mum has told all her friends. One of them came up to me in Tesco this evening where I’d gone to buy milk. Putting her hand on my arm she said that she had always thought I’d end up on the stage, what with being gay and such a nice looking boy. Dad shook his head and told me that I allow Twinkles to wind me round his little finger. He still expressed an interest in tickets and ruffled my hair as if I was about twelve years old and I’d done something to amuse him. Everyone at work knows. It’s the talk of the office. I went in to work this morning to be greeted by a hearty chorus of, ‘you’re the one that I want, ooh ooh ooh, honey…’ It turned out that Tracey, one of my section staff, had called yesterday morning to tell me that she might be a little late, as she had a dental appointment. She got talking to Twinkles, need I say more. Oh well. No one said love and commitment would be easy. I’m having a quiet night in tonight, alone. It’s bliss. Twinkles has gone over to Lulu’s to rehearse with him.