Going to the Chapel

by Swan, Tarn

  Becoming somewhat emotional and close to tears himself, the manager began wringing his hands and imploring, “no, no, bel girasole Signore-Signora, per favore, nessune più lacrime, don't cry - we will fix this terrible mistake.”

  We ended up in a gorgeous room with a stunning view of the lake. It had a sweet little balcony complete with table and chairs. We also had a luxurious private bathroom adjoining our room. As soon as we were alone, bel girasole Signore-Signora, which I believe roughly translates as, pretty sunflower man-lady, dried his mascara swamped eyes, flicked back his blonde tresses, looked at me, gave a triumphant, if damp smile and said, “and that, dear husband, is how you get the best room in the hotel at no extra charge.”

  I swatted and kissed him in equal measure. He had been genuinely upset, but I suspect once he saw it was having an effect he cranked up the emotional drama. To appease my moral conscience I made sure no one had actually been turfed out just to accommodate sobbing Signora Stardust.

  After viewing his blotchy tear ravaged complexion and swollen eyes Twinks declared he couldn't possibly make an appearance in the dining room and we ended up having dinner, complete with champagne (compliments of the manager) on our balcony. It was perfect.

  I have to report that for the remainder of our stay I was virtually ignored, while Twinks was treated like royalty by the hotel staff. I think the Italians have a fondness for passionate dramatic types. The manager hurried to greet him personally every morning, kissing his hand with old world charm before escorting him to the breakfast table. Twinks lapped it up. He told me I could pick up a few tips from the Italians about how to treat a lady. I muttered something about giving the Italians a few tips on dealing with spoiled English transvestites, involving frequent use of a wood paddle.

  Gina the chambermaid roundly scolded me one day because Twinks told her that on returning from a day out I'd flopped onto the bed and spoiled her artistic arrangement of his nightdress before he could appreciate it. She came up and redid it just for him, shaping it into a swan in honour of his new surname and warning me to stay away from it, at least until Twinkles was in it. She said it was a pleasure to have nightgowns worthy of her skills. They were the most beautiful and elegant the hotel had seen in a very long time. It was good to know that someone still understood the principles of style and glamour; this while giving my plain, slightly crumpled t-shirt and shorts a disparaging glance. I think she thought Twinks had married beneath him. When we left at the end of the week Twinks presented her with a silk-fringed wrap she had particularly admired. I thought I was going to drown in a continental fall of tears.

  It was a harmonious week with only one small blip. We had a disagreement mid week when we arranged to go on a day-long excursion into the mountains and he dressed for it in a mini dress and stiletto heels. I immediately ordered him to change into something sensible. He snapped that he wasn't planning on scaling the Monte Rosa he was just going to look at it and if I wanted to dress like some half arsed Edmund Hillary ascending Everest I could go ahead, but he was staying as he was and furthermore he was sitting next to someone else on the bus.

  In the end we found a solution agreeable to both of us, well, to be honest, agreeable mainly to me. He changed into shorts, t-shirt and flat shoes and I didn't confine him to the bedroom for the day with a smacked backside. He was glad to have been 'brutally bullied' as it turned out because the trip involved a fair amount of walking and climbing over rough ground. It was a lovely experience. The scenery was spectacular. By the time we got back to the hotel that evening Twinks had fallen back in amore with me.

  He loved Lake Maggiore as much as I did, but by the time the week neared its close it was obvious he was getting restless with the scenic scene and local café life. He was itching to head off to the city for 'his' part of the honeymoon.

  We spent the last four days of our holiday in Milan where he was able to tour the shops to his heart's content and enjoy some real city nightlife. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would. There are some beautiful buildings, museums and art galleries in Milan. We spent the mornings exploring together then we tended to separate after lunch, with him prowling and browsing every designer fashion house situated in the so-called golden triangle and me doing the culture vulture thing. We came together again at our hotel where he yawned through my descriptions of history, architecture and paintings and I groaned through his descriptions of what he'd bought and how much he'd spent.

  Sadly we had a bit of a Milano falling out when during dinner one evening he broached the subject of an utterly fabulous, you'll die when you see it, Valentino dress that had caught his eye that afternoon. I didn't need to see it to die. I almost suffered cardiac arrest when he told me the price. It worked out to be 'only eight hundred and ten pounds.' He reckoned if he budgeted really carefully over the next few months he could afford to put it on his Barclaycard. I asked if his budgeting had taken into account the purchases he had already put on his Barclaycard while we'd been on holiday? Of course it hadn't. He’d chosen to conveniently overlook anything that might interfere with his fantasy dress accounting. He had also chosen to overlook the fact that we'd be paying off the cost of our wedding for a while to come, as well as our normal day-to-day expenses.

  His solution was to suggest he use his American Express card to buy the dress, as if that somehow made a difference to his ability to pay the bill. I said no. I didn't think either his personal or our joint resources could accommodate such a staggeringly expensive frippery, especially as it would be something he would only wear once or twice simply to show off the designer label and price tag before shoving it to the back of the wardrobe as yesterday’s fashion. It was going into debt for no good purpose. I wasn't going to allow it.

  He stalked off in a denied a designer dress huff leaving me to finish dinner on my own. When I got back to our room he was laid on the bed in the sulking position, on his side, knees up, mouth turned down. He said he hoped us signing a civil contract hadn't led me to suppose that my HOH powers had increased because they hadn't. I need think that just because he sometimes wore mascara and knickers he was planning on becoming some browbeaten, dowdy little wifey like Ray Brownlow's missus.

  I frostily replied that the only person who got browbeaten in our household was me. He was always trying to get his own way by sulking and throwing tantrums. I wasn't putting up with it, especially not when it came to lashing out a queen's ransom on a basically useless item, which would never show any kind of value for money. I also took the opportunity to remind him that he'd known the lay of the domestic land when he signed up.

  He decided to challenge me by asking what I'd say if he'd already gone ahead and bought the dress. I smiled sweetly and said I'd say 'take it back, Jonathan' and once he'd taken it back I would take down his knickers and then my hand would have a serious discussion with his bare bottom.

  He tearfully snapped it was a good job he hadn't bought it then and no frigging wonder I'd suggested Italy for our honeymoon seeing as it was the birthplace of Fascism! I was a fashion challenged fascist swine who obviously felt right at home.

  There was no clubbing done that night. We spent the evening sitting at opposite ends of the hotel bar drinking and glowering at each other - the wicked oppressor and the poor innocent oppressed. Relations thawed in the lift on the way back to our room when I reached for his hand, mainly to stop myself falling over because I'd had too much to drink. I think he was also glad of something to hang onto. By the time we fell into bed, emotional if not physical equilibrium had been restored.

  Him in frocks has just poked his nose over my shoulder and said it's about time I stopped chuntering on about the honeymoon and got on with describing the actual wedding, otherwise he'll have no choice but to take over and describe the event himself. That'll be the day. He’s much too lazy to do any writing. He even gets me to do his emails. In fact he's even tried to get me to text message for him.

  He's been busy picking through our wedding presents. We ended u
p with a fair few even though we made it known, or at least I did, that I considered we pretty much had everything we needed and all we wanted was for friends and family to come and help us celebrate our nuptials. I suggested if folk really felt a need to give something then a donation in our name to any gay/transgender charity would be considered a nice gesture.

  Our wedding day was unique, but then everyone's wedding day is unique. However, the journaling of it will have to wait I'm afraid. It's been a hot humid day here and there's an ominous snarl of thunder overhead and an electrical charge in the air. We’re in for a storm. I don't fancy being fried to the keyboard.

  19th June 2006: Going to the Chapel

  We've had a busy few days catching up with friends and family, as well as jobs around the house. It would have been nice to have had Sunday to ourselves so we could begin to come down a bit after all the stress and excitement of the wedding and honeymoon, but Twinks, who has no intention of coming down anytime soon, accepted an invitation for us to go over to Teddy and Maurice's place for an afternoon barbecue. He saw it as another opportunity to go over details of our big day and be the centre of attention. I could have wrung his neck. I had a few choice words about him accepting the invite without first consulting me. He said I should have told him I wanted to spend Sunday in solitary confinement, as he wasn't psychic and couldn't read my thoughts. He claimed I'd enjoy it once I got there. I didn't. Teddy got on my nerves and eating burnt offerings in the noonday sun did nothing to soothe them. I was accused of not enjoying myself on purpose and of turning into a moaning old Minnie.

  This morning heralded a return to something like normality, with work on the agenda for both of us. Twinkle's countenance had a distinct lemony look to it when I shook him awake and told him the alarm had gone off. While I appreciate it's difficult to get back into the swing after a break, I didn't appreciate being told where I could shove the alarm clock. I reminded him that one of his wedding promises had been to obey me and if he didn't do as he was told and drag his arse out of bed there was going to be trouble.

  As he trundled off to the bathroom grumpily scratching his balls and exuding wind I reminded myself that this was the man I had promised to love and cherish in his entirety, wind, lemon lips and all.

  By the time we set off for work he had re-morphed into human form and was looking forward to being the centre of attention yet again when he told everyone at the shop about our honeymoon and showed off our wedding photos. He looked so happy at the prospect that irritation was replaced with affection. The photos are gorgeous. I’m glad we decided to hire a professional photographer to capture the occasion for posterity. It really was a wonderful day. I’d say fairytale, but it sounds too much like a gay cliché. Details coming up!

  On the evening before the wedding I went over to Brian's place for dinner. He’s a sensational cook and had prepared a divine chicken curry. We had a few drinks with our meal and we talked. He asked whether I’d mind very much if he included a photograph of Steven in the decorations he was having put up for our reception at the PP. He felt it was an event Steven wouldn't have wanted to miss out on. He also said that had he lived, a civil partnership was something they too would have undertaken. Mind? Of course I didn’t mind. I told him it would be an honour and a pleasure.

  I asked if life without Stevo was getting any easier. He gave a sad shrug and a smile and said yes and no. His grief was evolving into another shape and form, but it would never leave him. He'd had a few dates and he'd enjoyed their company and enjoyed sex, but the company he wanted, the voice he longed to hear, the smile he ached to see, the person he wanted to touch and hold was gone forever and nothing could ever compensate. Steven had been his soul mate. He had known it the moment their eyes met for the first time. I understood completely. To my dismay and consternation the conversation triggered a wholly unexpected reaction.

  I suddenly experienced a moment of intense fear. I felt physically sick with it. For a second I wanted to run away and avoid making the commitment I was about to make, not because I didn’t love Twinkles, but because I realised that at some point I might have to live without him.

  Brian immediately twigged my anxiety and the reason for it. Putting his arms around me he gave me a hug and said, “Tarn my love, don't frighten yourself. Life involves risk and you'll cope with whatever you have to cope with. Besides,” he winked, “the stress of living with Madam Stardust will see you off long before you see her off.” This was probably true and we ended up laughing.

  We were going over some of Madam Stardust's past antics when Maryann called to tell me the man himself was having a crisis. I immediately panicked. What kind of crisis? Was he having second thoughts? Maryann crisply told me to get a grip and let her finish talking. He'd locked himself in the bathroom because his ankles were swollen and he was sobbing he couldn't possibly get married with fat ankles, as they'd ruin the look of his shoes. Lulu and Kevin, ever helpful, had made it worse by telling him that after a week without nookey, his fat ankles would be the last things I'd notice. I'd probably sign away my life to someone with legs like an elephant on the off chance of a shag.

  I asked to speak to Twinks, but he refused because it was bad luck to talk to the groom on the night before the wedding. I asked how much he'd had to drink and she said just a few cocktails. I know his cocktails. They're lethal concoctions of about ninety percent proof and they were the last thing he needed when his emotions were already hyped up. I told her to tell him he wasn't to have anymore. He could drink water, tea, but no more alcohol.

  In my best bossy big brother voice I also told her she wasn't to have any more to drink either, as she sounded a bit slurred, and nor were Lulu or Kevin. She was to tell Twinks that if he wasn't out of the bathroom in five minutes, sitting with his legs up and ice packs on his feet then regardless of whether it was bad luck or not I was coming over to sort them all out.

  I'd no sooner put my phone down when an agitated aunt Helen called me. Debs had got her dad all in a state by telling him that because it was a gay wedding and Twinks was a transvestite, all the male guests had to wear frocks too. Poor aunt Helen demanded to know if it were true, because it hadn't said so on the invitation and Joan hadn't mentioned it, but then she was used to men in frocks. I assured her that uncle Ronnie's best suit would more than suffice for the occasion.

  Brian, grinning from ear to ear, said that between my partner and my family he didn't know whether I was the most cursed or the most blessed gay man on the planet. I said I thought I was probably a bit of both.

  Families are funny things and mine seems funnier than most at times. At least the majority of them are okay with who I am, relatively speaking, if that isn't too much of a pun. I know they talk behind my back about: 'our poor Joan's, or our poor Desmond's boy, you know the gay one with the queer partner who wears dresses, they can't help being like that you know, it's a birth defect,' but they also still speak to my face should they see it in the street or at a family gathering.

  Brian's father and brother, both of whom are Methodist lay preachers, disowned him years ago. His name is not to be spoken. He only sees his mother once every few months when he drives miles to his hometown to meet her for a clandestine lunch. It’s all so sad and so needless. I think my greatest grudge against organised religion is the refusal to help prevent or heal these painful family rifts. In fact it encourages them by its continued and misguided opposition to GLBT equality. So many religions preach about love and tolerance, but then promote hatred and persecution against a massive section of the world population.

  Returning to our wedding. The day itself dawned fair and bright. I'd half expected thunder and lightening or fire and brimstone or something similar that would prove our charming correspondent's pronouncements that we were the scum of the earth in God's eyes, worse even than child molesters, rapists and murderers. We would be smitten for our foul sin of loving each other, but no, it was calm, bright and warm. A perfect summer's day. It just goes to show that God smi
les equally upon those about to be joined in Holy Matrimony or Civil Ceremony alike, regardless of the sex mix of the couples involved. Up and down the country homos and hetros, religious and secular, would be rejoicing in the fine weather for their special day.

  At half past nine in the morning Lulu, in his capacity as chief keeper of the bride, turned up at mum's house on his motorbike to inform me Twinks was heartbroken because I hadn't sent him a wedding card. I was appalled. I didn't know I was supposed to. I said somewhat defensively that he hadn't sent me one. Cue the post with a wedding card from Twinkles. It was beautiful, as was the message he'd written in it. Folding his arms Lulu glared at me and asked me what the heck I was trying to do, make the bridal boy's mascara run before he even got to the register office? I felt like slapping myself.

  Dashing to the nearest card shop I chose a card, wrote it out, stamped and addressed it and drove to Frank and Katie's house, parking discreetly at the corner of the street so Twinks didn't spot the car. I begged Katie to deliver the card to our house and tell him it had got mixed in with her post, which she did. She said his face was a picture when he opened it. I casually asked a question I had thus far avoided, what was Twink's wedding dress like? She grinned and said in a few short hours I would see for myself and I would be knocked out. Hoping it didn't mean I was likely to faint from shock when I saw it, I headed back to mum's to start making my own wedding toilette preparations.