Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  He said it was it his prerogative to sit where he wished to sit. Incidentally, he was sick and tired of any choices he made being defined as sulking if they didn’t personally suit me. He then expressed a desire for us to get on with getting home as he had a lot of getting ready to do for the PP Halloween Ball. I said if he didn’t alter his attitude he wouldn’t be going to the Halloween Ball, because until he did as I had asked the car would remain stationary. There was a measured silence and then he flung open the door, got out, hurled it closed, wrenched open the front passenger door, climbed in, clunked on his seat belt and savagely pulled the door to with an ear shattering bang. Folding his arms he stared dead ahead. I sweetly thanked him, rammed the car into gear and headed homewards while entertaining thoughts of booking an extended camping holiday in the Welsh Hills. Twinks wouldn’t be seen dead camping, not unless the campsite had a five star hotel and Spa on it.

  A democratically appointed silence reigned in the car as we journeyed homewards, silence by the people for the people. However, I had plenty of words banking up on my tongue. I planned to arrange them into a speech and deliver them the moment we got home.

  We got to the outskirts of town and I pulled up at a set of pedestrian lights waiting expectantly for the button pushers to cross to the other side. It soon became clear that the pedestrians concerned were anything but pedestrian. In fact they were almost incapable of any kind of cohesive movement. I have never in my life seen anyone so astoundingly drunk, not even Twinks and his PP cronies on a weekend in Blackpool. The wannabe road crossers had obviously started their Halloween celebrations early. One of them managed to stagger erratically to the other side of the road and grab hold of the traffic light pole, grasping it for dear life. The other, who had an open can of Carlsberg Special Brew Lager clasped in his hand, made several attempts to join his friend, but no sooner did he take two steps forward than he staggered three back before sitting down heavily on his backside in the road. It was to his credit that he didn’t spill a drop of lager, at least not until he actually tried to take a drink of it. It wasn’t just his legs that he’d lost all sense of. He’d obviously lost sense of all his body parts including his face. This became evident when he tried to take a swig from the can. Opening his mouth he made drinking motions while pouring most of the liquid into the vicinity of his right ear. He would have had to have Picasso like features for it to have worked in any way.

  It was like watching a silent comedy. Both men were so inebriated that they were beyond speech and were relying on exaggerated gestures to communicate with each other. The one hanging onto the lamp post was wildly gesticulating for his friend to get up off his arse and cross the road before the green man stopped flashing and turned back to red. With a supreme effort the fallen one got up off his backside, zigzagged madly across the road, mounted the kerb promptly dismounted it, staggered back several feet with arms flailing and contacted the roadside with his backside once again. He sat there like a rag doll, limp limbed, head lolling, totally oblivious to the hooting of car horns and the angry comments from the line of held up motorists. No on was being complimentary about his choreography. His friend bravely left the safety of his pole and pitched forwards to lend a hand. Leaning down with overstated care he removed the can of lager from his mate’s hand. Cradling it lovingly against his chest he keeled back to his newfound friend the traffic light stand, embracing it once again. The rag doll gave up all pretence of trying to walk and getting onto his hands and knees crawled across the road to the pavement where he promptly collapsed.

  I drove a short distance and pulled off onto the side of the road, reaching for my cell phone to call the police with regard to the drunken duo. Twinkles took umbrage and said I had no damn right to interfere and asked how I’d feel if someone got me arrested just because they deemed I’d had too much to drink? I told him I’d feel grateful if it meant I got home alive and un-maimed. I was honestly concerned for the well being of the two men, who in point of fact looked to be more boys than men. They were no more than eighteen by the look of them. If my guess was right they were heading for a pub I could see on the far side of the road and they still had to negotiate another stretch of busy tarmac to get to it. I had visions of one or both of them staggering into the path of a car or bus. Even if they did survive the crossing, I doubted they’d survive the alcoholic poisoning they were on course for if they drank much more. They’d be much better off in police custody until they sobered up enough to make it home.

  Twinks ranted about me being a self-righteous-do-gooder, sticking my bloody nose into other folks business and I was going to delay us getting home. He’d have to rush his preparations for going out. I knew the Halloween Ball was one of the most important events on the drag queen calendar. Hadn’t I pissed on his parade enough for one week! I said tough. I wasn’t going to have the death of one or even two drunken idiots on my conscience just so he could have an extra few minutes primping time. Fine! If I wanted to play moral patron to a couple of piss artists who wouldn’t thank me for it anyway, I could do it on my own. He was going to get a bus the rest of the way home and I could go to hell, which I suppose was fair enough given the date.

  My long-suffering car winced, as once again its door was thrust brutally open and hurled shut. Fighting off a powerful urge to go after him and drag him back to the car by the scruff of the neck, I went ahead and did what I thought was right in the circumstances, just as I had done what I thought was right on Sunday. I called the police informing them of a possible tragedy waiting to happen. Busybody I might be, but at least I’d be one with a clear conscience. The police turned up fairly quickly, the station was obviously located in town, and took charge of the situation.

  I went in search of Twinkles. I soon spotted him standing at a bus stand, his pink boa fluttering a reproach in the cold breeze. Drawing alongside, I leaned over and opened the door. He ignored me. I sharply told him not to be so daft and get in. He again ignored me and that’s when it happened, something snapped. This particular camel had shouldered enough straws over the weekend and it had had enough. I told him to suit himself, pulled the door closed with a thump and drove off leaving him standing at the bus stop.

  By the time I got close to home the rush of anger that had prompted the action had subsided and I regretted it. However, there was little point turning around and going back, because the chances were that he’d already boarded a bus. To make sure I called him before I got out of the car and asked where he was. He curtly confirmed that he was on a bus and abruptly rang off. I went in the house and got changed and then made a start on dinner, listening out for his key in the lock. It didn’t come. I wasn’t surprised. We were into negative game playing territory and my not insisting that he got in the car at the bus stop had notched it up a stage. I mentally chided myself, but damn it I’m not perfect. I get tired and fed up and he’d been treating me like a leper since Sunday evening. I called his cell again, but he wasn’t answering this time. I rang Lulu and asked if Twinkles was there? There was an awkward pause, which confirmed what I wanted to know. I wearily asked to speak to him.

  The exchange at their end went like this:

  “It’s Tarn.”

  “Who?”

  “Tarn.”

  “Oh, the swine that betrayed me and then abandoned me at a bus stop. What does he want?”

  “To talk to you.”

  “Tell him I’m busy. In fact tell him I’ve got more important things to do. He understands all about importance.”

  “Don’t be so bloody daft, Twinks, come and talk to him.”

  “Well, stick a plug up my bum and call me a bath tub, here’s another one who thinks I’m daft. You and him were obviously meant for each other. Seeing as you have mutual contempt of me in common, isn’t it lucky that he’s now my EX-partner and the way is now open for you to move in on him, you covetous SLUT!”

  “Tarn, sweetie,” Lulu’s honeyed tones bled into my ear, “if you don’t come and get your BOY BITCH very, ver
y soon. I’m going to pull all his hair out by the roots.”

  I hastily put the phone down and grabbed my car keys.

  Twinkles still had a full head of hair when I got there so they’d obviously made up. He didn’t look pleased to see me though. Lulu discreetly went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and make an imaginary cup of tea, while Twinkles pretended I was invisible. I bluntly told him that unless he wanted Lulu to come back into the room and find him jack-knifed bare arsed over my knee, he’d better put his jacket and shoes on ready to go home.

  The atmosphere in the car on the ride back was horrible, absolutely leaden. As soon as we got indoors he made for the stairs. I halted him, asking what he thought he was doing? He said he’d lost enough time and he was going to make a start on getting ready. I told him we needed to talk and dependent on the results of that talk I would then decide whether in fact he was allowed to go out. It was eye of the storm time. He said he didn’t want to talk to me ever again and ran upstairs. I swiftly followed, stopping short on the landing as the bedroom door slammed shut with such force that it bounced back open and slammed into the bedroom wall. I intercepted it before it swung back. Taking his arm and turning him sideways I applied a series of hard smacks to the seat of his trousers saying that I’d had enough and if he banged one more door I would spank him until he couldn’t sit down. I then firmly placed him nose first into a corner of the bedroom and told him to think things over.

  I’m not a huge devotee of corner time as a form of domestic discipline and it’s not something I impose frequently or for long, but we’ve found out over the years that it can serve a purpose. To begin with it makes clear my authority and that’s something that Twinkles needs to be reminded of from time to time. Our interpretation of the Dom/sub dynamic is a fairly mild one in comparison to some. I’m not one for thrusting my authority down his throat every single second of the day, other things perhaps, but not my authority. I have no interest in draining away his personality so that he becomes a mere extension of my will and only able to function at a nod of the head from me. If I wanted that level of control I would buy myself a dog to train, and I say that jokingly, without meaning any disrespect to those couples that do practice a more intense power exchange relationship. Horses for courses as they say. People have to serve their needs in ways that are meaningful to them. Getting back on track, corner time gives us both some breathing space in tense situations and Twinkles has admitted that it helps when he’s gotten bogged down in a negative mood groove.

  Sitting on the bed with my arms wrapped around my legs I watched and waited. He stood bristling resentment for a record breaking fifteen minutes before his shoulders relaxed. Turning his head he gave me a wistful look. My own tense muscles relaxed and I held out my hands. We lay together on the bed and cuddled. I stroked my fingers through his hair. We didn’t speak because we didn’t need to. The fact that he was where he was indicated that he’d let his anger go and I was at last forgiven. It was good enough for me. Forgiven for what? For the failure of the PP lip-synching team to win first prize in the competition last Sunday night.

  The rehearsal on stage at the PP on Saturday night had gone well. I found that once we got into the routine I overcame my nerves and was fine. The people watching us seemed to like what they saw and gave us a warm reception, which bolstered everyone’s confidence. We were hopeful. Sunday dawned, and so did Twinks, who was up with the proverbial larks, a rarity for him. He spent the day in feverish activity, going over the costumes, setting out makeup, practising words and synchronisation and insisting that I do the same. He’s very bossy when he has a mind to be.

  As the big event crept closer my stomach and bladder started to get stage fright again at the prospect of performing the routine in front of hundreds of people at the Town Hall Theatre. Tickets for the venue were sold out. All our friends and most of our families would be there, plus a host of strangers. Twinkles and Lulu had decided that it would be better if we got costumed at our house. They said the dressing rooms at the Town Hall would be overflowing with lip-sync queens and you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting close to a mirror, not without a partisan sniper on hand to keep a clear space around you. I was told that I was wearing makeup and liking it because my features wouldn’t show up under the lights otherwise. I grudgingly bowed to those that knew best in such circumstances.

  When I was fully attired Twinkles told me that I looked hotter than John Travolta had ever done. He said that if Lu wasn’t in residence, his fifties style petticoats would be up around his ears, and he’d be doing something that Sandy would be ashamed of in the morning. Despite his wanton attitude he actually looked very sweet and demure in his blouse and full skirt, offset with innocent little white bobby socks. I was looking forward to deflowering him later. His stage makeup had disguised the bruising around his eye and he was raring to go, and so was I…but only to the loo as nerves struck yet again.

  Mum called to wish us luck and Twinks remonstrated with her, saying in the world of theatrics the correct expression was ‘break a leg.’ She remonstrated back and said if he didn’t watch it she wouldn’t so much break his leg as slap his hands until his eyes watered. She’d see us down there.

  Just as we were getting ready to set off the phone rang. It was my dad. His car wouldn’t start and he didn’t think he was going to be able to make it to the concert. I said not to worry, there was plenty of time and I would drop Twinkles and Lulu at the Town Hall and then pick him and Gill up and give them a lift. It would be a shame for them to miss my one and only stage debut, and besides they had splashed out for the tickets. Twinks had a grumble about them being too tight-fisted to pay for a taxi, but I shushed him. It would cost less to put a down payment on a new Rolls Royce than take a taxi from where they lived. I duly dropped off Lulu and Twinks and then collected Dad and Gill and headed back to the Town Hall with plenty of time to spare.

  We were almost at our intended destination when Gill suddenly let rip with a hair-raising scream. I almost drove off the road. She was panic stricken yelling that her waters had broken and she was getting strong labour pains. Dad, sounding panicky himself, tried to calm her and asked me if I would please detour to the hospital. I didn’t hesitate. I mean who would? Dad used his mobile to ring the hospital and say they were on their way, and I concentrated on finding the shortest route possible. By the time we pulled up outside the maternity hospital, Gill was in a terrible state. She was sobbing and all but screaming with pain. I silently thanked God with all my heart that my partner was a man who could never have to go through this thing called childbirth, as a result of something I had done.

  It soon became clear that something had gone wrong with Gill’s labour. The midwife sent for a doctor and in what seemed like seconds Gill was being taken to theatre for an emergency caesarean. The baby was breech and couldn’t be turned and there was a problem with the umbilical cord. I was left comforting my shell-shocked father who suddenly looked all his years. It seemed that the fates had decreed that the performing arts were not for me. I couldn’t leave my dad alone at such a time. If something happened to Gill or the baby he would need some support. I called Twinkles and explained. He didn’t take it well. He was too keyed up and set on his own agenda. I countered his sharp words with a few of my own and rang off. As dad and I waited for news I was very conscious of being stared at by staff and visitors alike. I heartily wished that I could shed my fifties greaser boy look in favour of something less conspicuous and modern, not to mention comfortable. The jeans were killing me.

  Thankfully, Gill was safely delivered of a little girl. There was a moment of mild embarrassment when the attending nurse assumed that I was the father and directed the news of the baby’s birth at me telling me I could now go in and see my wife and daughter.

  As I watched my father cradling his newborn daughter, staring enraptured at her, I felt my throat ache with a sudden grief that this would be something I would never experience. Perhaps it was also grief for some l
ost part of my father’s affection. I don’t know. Human beings are such complex things, how can we ever be really surely what it is that we’re feeling? Dad put the baby in my arms and told me to say hello to my little sister. He then said that if she turned out even half as fine as Maryann and I, he would count himself the luckiest man on earth. It was a touching moment and we both had to struggle to keep back the tears. I hugged and kissed him and a woozy Gill and left the little family to get to know one another.

  Maurice stood in for me at the concert and according to Lulu did a good job. According to Twinkles he was crap, not at the dancing, but at the lip-synching. He was out of sequence with the words and he didn’t have enough sex appeal to play Danny. The PP came fourth out of twenty-two entrants. Considering it was a first attempt at such a competition, fourth place was something of a success in my book and everyone else’s. Not so in Twinkles’ book. In his book it was a disgrace, a shambles, a farce and it was entirely my fault. The competition winners hailed from a venue known as The Mucky Duck Drag Emporium in Sunderland. They performed to a song from The Sound Of Music. Twinkles declined to congratulate them. He claimed that their interpretation of ‘Climb Every Mountain’ was the worst since Chris Bonington, reputedly, got slaughtered on homemade wine at a W.I. fundraiser lecture and sang it while perched on a card table. Of course it was pure hyperbole and sour grapes.