Swan Songs

by Swan, Tarn

  The drive home knackered her and she was more than willing to be tucked up on the couch under a blanket, from whence she treated me like her personal houseboy. I dusted, hoovered, made lunch, washed up, prepared a casserole for dinner with her yelling instructions through to me: ‘don’t leave big chunks of onion, Prissy doesn’t like them. Chop them finely and don’t cut those carrots into bloody wagon wheels, dice them.’ Between Twinkles and my mother I have a dog’s life. It’s a good job I’m easy going. I also climbed up into the loft and got the artificial Christmas tree down, assembling and dressing it under her eagle eye: ‘move that red bauble, it’s too close to that other red one, that tinsel isn’t draped properly’ and so on until it was dressed to her satisfaction. She then permitted me a coffee break and asked if I thought the police would ever find out who was harassing us. Her guess is as good as mine on that score. The general feeling seems to be that we just had to live with it in the hope it will fizzle out. Mum got emotional and said if she ever finds out the identity of the bastard she’ll rip off their head. How dare anyone torment and persecute her family in such vile ways. I comforted her and told her not to worry and maybe what had happened on Saturday had been an isolated incident. A prank by idiots who thought tormenting the local gay couple was legitimate sport for a Saturday night. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the letter writer and the rubbish thrower. I’m not sure if I was trying to convince her or myself. On reflection I think I prefer the thought of it being a single person. Being hassled by one nutter is bad enough, but the thought we might be getting targeted by more than one is really very disturbing. It makes me wonder if we’re using the wrong deodorant or something!

  I left for home soon after Priscilla arrived, wishing him the best of luck. He grinned and said mum was a doddle after spending the day cooped up in a classroom with dozens of hormone-loaded teenagers. He followed me out to my car saying it had been a funny old year in more ways than one. He was obviously leading up to something, so I smiled and said it certainly had, and waited. He paused and then awkwardly asked if I minded him staying in the house? He realised it must be a bit odd for me, having someone I knew from a nightclub dating my mother. I assured him I was fine with it. Mum is old enough to make her own life choices. All that concerned me was her happiness. Nothing else was my business. He looked relieved and shook my hand.

  Anyway, let me get round to telling the tale of last Saturday night. It was a bittersweet affair. As predicted Twinkles was thrilled when I told him I was taking him to Judges for his birthday dinner. If it had been left to me we wouldn’t have made it to the restaurant at all because he looked so gorgeous that the only thing I wanted to do was get him undressed and into bed. He wore black tailored trousers and a fitted shirt in pale graduated shades of pink, along with a black tie and a loose long line black jacket. He wore no makeup, apart from a touch of mascara (he can’t bear his eyelashes to be naked) and he didn’t shave because he knows how much I love to see and feel a faint trace of beard on him. He finished off with a touch of my favourite YSL Jazz cologne. He looked drop dead sexy. I told him so and he graciously smiled and permitted me a kiss, but sternly slapped my hand when I attempted to loosen a shirt button, telling me it was customary to eat dinner before tucking into dessert. I sought a compliment for my appearance and he said I made a very nice foil for his beauty, which earned the cheeky toad a whack on the rump. He grinned and said I looked as handsome as anyone could look with fair but by no means blonde hair and why didn’t I allow him to highlight it for me on Sunday? I said an emphatic NO. He’d just have to put up with the fair but by no means blonde, natural me.

  Judges restaurant is located in a huge Victorian mansion, which has been converted into a posh hotel. It’s a beautiful crystal chandelier, damask tablecloth and fine silver and china establishment complete with wall-to-wall serving staff attired in formal wear. To be honest I prefer something a little less intimidating, but Twinkles was in absolute heaven and as that was the objective of the exercise I was more than happy to play along. The food was beautiful and I do mean beautiful. I didn’t know whether to photograph it or eat it and while it certainly graced the plate on which it was arranged, it didn’t do much to fill my stomach. It did taste delicious, what little there was of it. Twinkles claimed the servings were more than ample and if I didn’t watch it my paunch would expand even further over my waistband. I thought that was a bit of a cheek coming from someone who polished off his own dessert in next to no time then eyed mine with such avarice and longing that I handed it over, even though I was still famished. By the way I do not have a paunch. My stomach muscles are slightly relaxed that’s all.

  We ordered coffee. With the coffee came a Maitre d’ carrying a box of luscious handmade chocolates, two pretty filigree silver dishes and a pair of silver tongs. He solemnly handed a silver dish and the tongs to me and invited me to choose a selection of chocolates to go with my coffee. Most people, fearful of being thought greedy, will select one or two. I was no different, but hunger made me more daring than I might otherwise have been and I helped myself to three delicious looking specimens. To my mortification and the headwaiter’s consternation, plus the unconcealed amusement of nearby diners, Twinks waived away the little silver dish and tongs and told the waiter to just leave the box on the table. I felt sorry for the man. He wandered off with the dish and tongs, periodically glancing back at our table, as if he hoped that Twinks would call him back, say he was joking and return the chocolates. Chance would be a fine thing. He ploughed through the lot. I only got another two because I flexed my authoritarian muscles and threatened to spank him for greed if he didn’t divvy a couple in my direction. We must have passed into Judges’ folklore as the greediest guests on record. I didn’t mind too much. Taking into consideration how much the dinner cost I figured they could spare us a few extra handmade chocolates to go with our coffee.

  Twinkles evening was made perfect when his keen perusal of the other diners, in search of someone famous, came up trumps. My eyes watered as he kicked my ankle under the table and hissed excitedly, ‘it’s him, look, look, it’s really him, have a look, but try not to look as if you’re looking, ooh isn’t he lovely.’ I ‘Him’ turned out to be Adam Morgan from Twinks favourite Soap, Hollyoaks, or rather the actor who plays him, David Brown. I didn’t think he was particularly special. I’ve seen better-looking men. He’s appearing in a local pantomime this Christmas Season. The PP gets up a Panto outing every year and Twinkles had been instrumental in ensuring the tickets for this years visit was for Cinderella, the production that his Hollyoaks idol is appearing in rather than for Aladdin, which is being staged by a rival theatre.

  His mind started to wander into fairytale territory. Perhaps the pantomime production company might be in need of stage extras who could dance and sing a bit, or someone to act as a stand in for the Fairy Godmother if the one playing her fancied a night off. He could bring his own costume. Maybe he ought to slip on over there and ask for an autograph and casually manoeuvre the conversation around to theatrical opportunities. Maybe even Hollyoaks was on the lookout for new gay or transvestite characters…at that point I clamped my hand gently over his mouth to halt him and said no. The man was having an intimate meal with friends. In my opinion he deserved to be left alone to enjoy it in peace without being interrogated by a star struck fame hungry fan. He could legitimately ask for Mr Hollyoaks autograph at the theatre, when he was working, but not while he was off duty and trying to relax. It wasn’t fair. He would just have to resign himself to admiring from afar on this occasion.

  In the taxi on the way home Twinks snuggled up to me and said it had been the best second birthday ever. He then slipped a sly hand between my thighs and whispered that he was looking forward to getting me home so he could thank me properly. I limped out of that taxi. I couldn’t have walked properly if I tried. Thankfully, Lulu was staying with his parents for the weekend, so we had the house to ourselves. As soon as I closed the front door I reached for my gor
geous man and we enjoyed a very long, very passionate snogging session. When we broke for air he breathily told me to go get the champagne from the fridge, while he went upstairs to slip into something sexy and make the bedroom inviting. Removing his tie I told him that I was the Master Of Ceremonies, not him, and a garden shed without a roof would be inviting to me at that moment in time. Pushing him against the banisters I began to unbutton his shirt saying the champagne could chill a little longer. The only sexy slipping to be done was going to be done by me as I slipped him out of his clothes and onto something hot and…at which point our would be steamy sex session abruptly crashed and burned.

  The letterbox on the front door rattled and the next second there was an unearthly screeching sound and something detonated into the hall with a shower of sparks and flashes. It was terrifying and in all my life I have never lost an erection so fast and so completely. I felt the heat of the object rush past us as it shrieked down the hall ricocheting off the walls before exploding just above our refuge of the bottom stair. To my utter horror when the rocket hit the stairs above us spraying out a final burst of fiery sparks, the back of Twinkles’ jacket ignited. He began screaming in panic. I acted fast. Ripping the jacket from his body I dropped it onto the hall floor and stamped out the flames. By some miracle we both escaped physical injury, though our clothes were peppered with tiny gunpowder burns. A little bit of Twinks’ hair was singed at the back and there was a slight scorch mark on his shirt, but his skin was untouched. Thank God my amorous advances hadn’t progressed any further than divesting him of his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

  I got him upstairs and under the duvet as quickly as I could, and no my mind isn’t one track. My only objective was to allay shock by keeping Twinkles warm. He was shaking from head to foot and the pupils of his eyes were huge black holes. I switched off the smoke alarm, stopping it from noisily serenading the landing and then thoroughly checked the hall and stairs to make sure nothing was still smouldering. The carpet was badly scorched in several places and melted where the firework had spent itself on the stair. There were also burn marks on the walls, a picture had been smashed and of course Twinkles’ jacket was ruined. Our insurance company was going to disown us.

  After opening the front door to let out some of the acrid smoke I sat on the stairs and ran trembling hands through my hair feeling suddenly grateful that Twinkles had not been wearing one of his floaty, flimsy gowns or wraps They would have burned far faster than the denser material of the jacket. It shows what a state my nerves were in, because when someone suddenly said my name my heart almost emulated the rocket and exploded. I all but tumbled off the stair I was sitting on. It was Frank and Katie. They’d heard some disturbing noises and had come over to investigate. I explained what had happened. They were horrified. Frank went and had a scout around to see if he could see anyone, but the Close was deserted. I declined an offer of tea, thanked them for their kind concern and assured them we’d be okay. Once they’d gone home I called the police to report what had happened.

  The 999 Operator took details of the incident. She asked if anyone required medical attention, or if there were any fires burning that required professional help. She also asked if there was any evidence to suggest the perpetrator was still in the vicinity. I said no to all. She told me the police would be in touch shortly, and they were. I got a phone call five minutes later to say that my complaint had been registered and as there appeared to be no immediate danger, someone would arrange to call and fill out an incident report at the earliest opportunity. And that was it. Suddenly Lulu’s reluctance to go to the police seemed justified. Why bother? Nothing would be done. Nobody gave a damn, especially if you were gay. Unfair perhaps? Maybe it was unreasonable to expect the police to turn out? After all what could they do? They were hardly likely to find someone standing on the street corner holding a plaque that read: ‘I put a firework through the gay boys letterbox, please arrest me.’ Still, such lack of interest and action felt wrong and as I pointed out to the two officers who finally paid us a visit last night, it was an incident that could very easily have been more serious. It could have cost us our home and our lives. The policeman agreed and apologised, but said that resources and manpower were so stretched that they could no longer turn out for every incident the moment it happened. They had to prioritise and indications were that by the time I called, our situation had been contained and could wait. They asked if we could think of anyone who might be responsible, at which point Twinkles named the Brownlow’s and demanded their arrest and execution. The police said they’d look into it and as far as I know that’s what they’re still doing.

  It was a horrible end to a happy evening. Twinkles was badly shaken, we both were, but he was frightened whereas I was more angry than scared. He didn’t want to stay in the house in case whoever it was came back for a repeat performance while we were sleeping. I understood, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated to that degree. After duck taping the letterbox shut I took the champagne and a couple of glasses upstairs. Turning the bedroom lights on low I put on some calming music, spread a few towels on the bed and gave Twinkles a full body massage with scented oil to relax and calm him. Sadly, along with the champagne it relaxed him too much and his gentle snores halted my reawakened libido in its tracks. I’d hoped the evening would end with fireworks of a very different kind, but it was not to be.

  Meanwhile, the Christmas decoration war continues unabated. Frank has acquired a huge figure of Santa Claus on a pair of skis. It’s gigantic. It seems he has this contact in the Council. The skiing Santa had been used as a Christmas decoration for a municipal sports centre last year. The sports centre has since closed and his contact had ‘rescued’ the Santa and offered Frank the chance of ownership. When I went over there last night to inform Twinks that the police were on their way, I found him and Lu hoisting the Santa up onto the roof. Frank was on the roof and had rigged a pulley system around the chimney. I was roped in to help hoist. In addition to everything else, Frank now has Father Christmas skiing down his roof. He was cock-a-hoop, ‘that bugger Brownlow will have to go a long way to top that, Tarn man.’ Well, he certainly tried. We got home from work this evening to discover the Brownlow’s had instated two monstrous inflatable snow globes in their front garden. They have an assortment of Victorian Carol singers inside, as well as fake snow and piped music. The entire Close is beginning to resemble something out of a Tim Burton nightmare. Twinkles took the opportunity to launch a reindeer appeal. He said we owed it to the community to show that understated was better than overstated and the way to do it was buy a tasteful, life size twinkling reindeer for the garden, maybe two reindeers, same sex ones. He could change the white lights for pink ones. It would make a statement, what did I think? I issued a simple statement of my own. NO.

  I have a splitting headache. Twinkles is playing hairdresser tonight. He’s highlighting Lulu’s hair and the house stinks of peroxide. I detest the smell of the stuff. I’m going to call Brian and see if he wants to go out for a quiet drink.

  14th December 2005:

  Peroxide Hula-Hula Blues

  Brian was too busy to join me for a drink last night. He was interviewing candidates for temporary bar staff positions, to cover the Christmas period. I settled myself at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and made a start on writing out some Christmas cards. I made sure I used a metallic gel pen instead of a plain ordinary biro otherwise Twinks would slap my hand, tear them up and make me do them again. One does not write out one’s Christmas cards in common black ink, one uses gold or silver ink as befits the season.

  I was warming to the task and beginning to feel a bit festive when a shattering scream ripped through the house. Then came the sound of thundering footsteps descending the stairs. I jumped as the kitchen door crashed open and an apparition lurched into view slapping at its head and shrieking, ‘Look what he’s done, look what your idiot gobshite of a wife has done to my hair!’ It was Lulu, a horrifyingly blonde Lulu who for
some reason was garbed in a grass skirt, a coconut shell bra and a garland of paper flowers. Twinks, similarly garbed, closely followed him shouting that he was overreacting and his hair was fine. Okay, it was a bit lighter than he intended but it suited him, didn’t it, Tarn? It didn’t actually. It was so garish that my eyes were hurting just looking at it. Before I could reply, Lulu yelled and I quote: ‘overreacting my arse! Thanks to you I look like a fucking albino rent-boy! I’ll have gangs of brutal pimps trying to kidnap me and sell a piece of my arse to the highest bidder.’ Twinkles caustically snapped that he’d done him a favour then, because at least he’d get regular sex and a bit of extra pocket money. My eardrums vibrated as screams once again rent the air. I hastily intervened as an enraged Lulu tried to rip out brown hair in revenge for snow white and I don’t mean the Disney character.

  After separating the south sea hula-hula sisters I thrust them into the front room and seated them at opposite ends of the couch. Sitting between them I demanded details of the disaster. It transpired that while preparing and applying the hair solution Teddy had called Twinks on his mobile and they’d had a chat. Twinks, who should have been paying attention to what he was doing, didn’t. He made the solution too strong, put too much on and left it on too long. I told Lulu not to cry and that come the morrow he could take himself to a hairdresser of good repute and ask for help in toning down his shining locks. We would pay.