by Swan, Tarn
Grasping his wrist I marched him away from the window and into the office where I bent him over the desk and slapped my hand against the seat of his pants several times while telling him I'd had enough of his defiance. I righted him and again asked for the shutter keys. He took the bunch out of his pocket and made as if to put them in my outstretched hand, but then suddenly hurled them into the metal waste bin near the desk. Bin and contents then flew across the office courtesy of his foot, crashing into the bars on the window with a spiteful clang.
Without saying a word I retrieved the keys, locked the shutter and then went back into the shop, locking the front door behind me. There's a neat workbench in a corner of the shop where things like watch batteries and spring bars are replaced and small jewellery repairs are undertaken. It also houses cleaning materials, including brushes for keeping the nap on velvet display pads in good condition.
I picked a brush up before going back into the office. It was a bit like an oval hairbrush only with a slightly longer handle. He took one look at my face, another at the object in my hand and grabbing his jacket from the back of the desk chair said he was ready to go now, but I'd have to leave the brush because it was shop property and could not be removed from the premises.
I said I had no intention of taking it off the premises and locked the office door.
It was a tear drenched and uncomfortable journey home for him. To begin with it was a warm day and after giving him my unequivocal attention for quite some time his bottom was generating enough heat to boil a kettle. I’d paddled him on the bare and paddled him hard. He was going to be sore for a day or so. He was probably relieved to be sent to bed as soon as we got home, just so he could take his clothes off and take the weight off his blazing backside.
I took him some dinner up later on and found him lying on his stomach busily texting apologies and good luck messages to all the girls, wishing them a great weekend. When he finished he started to cry again. I lay on the bed and pulled him on top of me for a cuddle.
I told him I'd let him down by being distracted about Paul and we both might have had a better week if I'd smacked his backside earlier. I apologised.
He said he felt he'd let me down by whining about something trivial and shallow when I was mourning my friend's death. He also confessed that part of his temper was because he felt jealous of a relationship he'd had no real share in. He apologised. We made up.
His misery was salved a little more when his text messages were answered and the girls sent progress reports, photos and bitchy comments. It wasn't quite the same as being there, but it helped.
By rights we should be dining in grand style at Judges’ Restaurant this evening. I booked a table by way of compensation, but we didn't actually get there. Frank called as we were in the process of getting ready. He was in floods of tears (he's the most emotional straight man I've ever met) England has crashed out of the World Cup tonight. He's gutted and Katie doesn't understand: “ah'll tell you something about women, Twinks man, they're HARD! They’re really hard, not like us blokes who know what really matters.”
Twinks took Frank under his wing, saying he knew what it felt like to be disappointed. I cancelled our table at Judges and he began mixing consolatory cocktails.
As I type, Frank, draped with a purple boa, is using cocktail sticks, olives and glace cherries in an effort to explain the complexities of the offside rule to Twinks who keeps saying, “run that past me again, Frank love. I think I might be getting there.”
After watching the edited highlights of the match I’m inclined to think Wayne Rooney would benefit from having a good stern Dom waiting in the wings. It might make him less inclined to stamp on the bollocks of opposing players when they're down, thus leaving his team a man short when he got the red card.
I've rebooked the table at Judges for tomorrow evening. I think Twinks needs a treat and so do I. I'm determined we'll have one.
2nd July 2006: Love on a Summer Day
I was cleaning the bathroom early this afternoon when I heard next door's dog barking frantically followed by Mr Charm himself, Ray Brownlow, yelling at it to ‘shurrup and bloody lie down.’ It obeyed for about ten seconds and then another frenzied bout of barking followed by shouting erupted through the open window. When it happened twice more I went into the back bedroom and looked out of the window into the Brownlow's garden.
At the end of their garden, adjacent to our fence, they have an old patio area comprising of cracked flagstones and withered plants. The dog seems to have claimed this area for its own and can often be seen sunning itself there. It was obediently lying down, but looking far from relaxed. Its ears were on alert and it kept looking around. As I watched it suddenly shot to its feet barking madly and snapping its jaws at the air, as if it were trying to catch something.
At first I thought an insect must be bothering it, then I looked closer. There was something waving around, but I couldn't make out for the life of me what it was. Brownlow yelled again, the thing disappeared and the dog settled back down, but not for long. No sooner had it put its head on its paws than it was off again, leaping into the air and barking at the fence. Hmm, a sudden suspicion fell upon me and I turned my gaze from their garden to ours.
Twinks, looking like a gleeful twelve year old, was lying belly down on the ground poking a long piece of spear grass through the fence slats, mercilessly teasing the poor dog with it. He's never forgiven it for mauling his beloved fluffy mules. It was his turn to get a fright as I knocked sharply on the glass. He hurriedly discarded the grass stalk and got to his knees trying to look innocent. I couldn't help but grin because he looked so boyish and adorably naughty. I went out into the garden and told him to leave the poor creature alone or I would bring him in and send him to bed without any supper.
I made some tea and sat at the garden table under the sunshade reading the Sunday papers while he got out the hose and watered the garden. It's been incredibly hot the last few days and the bedding plants soon wilt. Brownlow's dog suddenly let forth with another sally of frenzied yapping. Twinkles had 'accidentally' aimed the hose at the fence instead of the flower border, spraying it with drops of water. I kept my eye on him after that. He slyly watered closer and closer to the fence until I made to stand up and then he turned his attentions and the hose elsewhere.
I decided his watering career was over when he executed the world's fakest sneeze, thus causing his arms to jerk upwards aiming a jet of water over the Brownlow's fence. It not only splashed the dog and set it off barking, but also splashed Brownlow and set him barking. I hastened to relieve the brat of the hosepipe. Grinning his head off the teasing little toad yelled an insincere apology to our neighbour and then turned the hose on me. I was drenched. He was helpless with laughter by the time I wrestled the hose off him and stuffed it down the back of his t-shirt and shorts to pay him back in kind. I sent him to bed afterwards, which he didn't mind at all seeing as I went with him.
There's something magical about making love in the heat of a summer afternoon, especially when the one you're making love to smells of sweet green grass, blue ozone and yellow sunshine.
Afterwards he fell asleep. I lay on my side admiring him. I love the way his nose turns up ever so slightly and the way his hair dries into little spikes. I love the misting of pale stubble that shows on his upper lip and jaw around mid afternoon if he hasn't shaved. I love the way he lies on his back with one leg bent up under the other. I love the smoothness of his waxed groin and the way his penis stays a warm brown-red for some time after his erection has died away.
He's been in a mischievous mood since he woke up this morning. All the tension of the last week is behind us and although his bottom and the tops of his thighs still bear some faint traces of the spanking I gave him on Friday evening he no longer gets a horrible reminder of it when he sits down. Lulu and the girls are on their way back from Morecambe, so that source of resentment and disappointment is over with. He's getting a lot of attention from me, not all
of it cuddles and fussing either. He's feeling more secure, relaxed and happy. We've got this evening to look forward to and so far we’re having a very nice Sunday.
11th July 2006: Domestic Miss
I don't know what's ailing Twinkles, but something is. He was fine this morning. Don is now back at work, as of yesterday. After a fortnight of stress and strain Twinks gladly handed back the reins of power and took his days owing. He doesn't go into work until Friday now, so it was a very happy and relaxed little bunny I left in bed this morning. The happy relaxed little bunny in question vanished sometime twixt my leaving home and returning to it.
He greeted my arrival home this evening with a fit of hysterics because I tramped damp grass down the freshly vacuumed hall. It's been raining and the council has just trimmed the verges leaving the cuttings all over the pavements. He demanded to know if I thought doormats existed simply as decorations and he supposed the notion of taking my grass encrusted shoes off at the door had never occurred to me!
I humbly apologised, explaining my mind was still occupied with a work matter. I would clean up my offensive cuttings after I'd had a cup of coffee. Multiple mutterings ensued.
“Sorry, huh, sorry, always sorry after the event. Coffee, been coffee drinking all day at work, comes home and starts again, sitting behind a desk all day, doesn't know he's born, not like me, on my dainty little dogs all day long, even at home, cleaning, hoovering. Do I get appreciated? No! I get wet stinking grass and a demand for coffee.”
I had made no such demand and said so. He said he wouldn't dream of letting me make my own coffee after a hard day's grass gathering at the office. He beat me to the kettle and possessively filled it and plugged it in before standing guard over the coffee jar.
Twinks in one of these moods is like a runaway train. He keeps going until either he runs out of steam or he crashes. I asked what was ailing him. Nothing was ailing him, absolutely nothing! I put his crabbiness down to the fact that after two weeks of stress the sudden cessation had triggered a kind of mood migraine and it would pass more quickly if I made soothing noises and kept my head down.
I sat at the table watching him briskly clack around the kitchen, rather enjoying the sight of his indignant, but cute little bottom clad in tight shorts. The coffee, strong enough to creosote the fence, was thumped down in front of me with the ominous words: “you haven't noticed have you?” I think any married man will appreciate and sympathise with the wave of icy fear that swept down my spine at those words.
Playing for time I chewed a lump of coffee while discreetly eyeballing him from head to foot to see what I hadn't noticed, but I couldn't see anything different. He stood there, one hip tilted, arms folded, lemon lipped, and expectant. I had two options. I could admit that indeed I hadn't noticed and could he point me in the right direction and I would notice, or, I could hazard a guess and might even get lucky, thus scoring bonus points. I opted for honesty, asking him to tell me what I hadn't noticed. He refused. If I hadn't noticed I obviously wasn't interested. Taken for granted that's what he was, part of the fixtures and fittings.
He bustled even more briskly around the kitchen, banging cutlery and crockery onto the table. I suspected roast martyr might feature on the menu for dinner. I tried again to get him to tell me what I’d failed to notice.
“No. I don’t feel like it. There’s no point.”
My will to live began to ebb away. Taking a deep breath I grabbed him, pulled him onto my lap and demanded he tell me what I was supposed to notice or he would shortly be noticing the appearance of several large red handprints on his nether regions.
He was wearing new earrings. Gold diamond cut hearts and he'd put them in all by himself. This isn't as trivial as it sounds. Twinkles has pierced ears and believe me they came at a cost. It's rumoured that two years down the line the girl who pierced them is still undergoing counselling. I teetered on the brink of breakdown a few times myself in the aftermath. He couldn't bear to touch his ears and it was left to me to clean the wounds and turn the earrings to stop the flesh healing around the posts, a nerve shattering process, which involved pinning him down several times a day. Even when his lobes were fully healed he couldn't bring himself to poke earrings in and out of the holes. I have to do it for him, or had.
We've been working on a programme of desensitisation involving him actually keeping his eyes open and watching in the mirror as I insert his chosen earrings. I was honestly impressed that he’d managed to overcome his phobia enough to put in new earrings. I told him I was proud of him and apologised for not noticing his pretty new earrings. Ego all stroked and petted he seemed happier. I felt confident I was forgiven for my grass faux pas and lack of observational skills when it came to ear ornamentation.
His edginess returned when I suggested I might have a shower before dinner. I couldn't go for a shower. He'd just cleaned the bathroom and he wasn't having me shedding hair and grass clippings all over the fruits of his labour, as well as sending steam all over the place making everything soggy. It was typically selfish of me to want to do so.
I ran out of patience telling him I cleaned the bathroom just as often as he did and didn't complain when he clogged the shower drain with molten wax, nail clippings, lotions, potions and other horrors. I had my shower, a cool one, though not by choice. He kept turning the hot tap on downstairs, which makes the shower run colder.
Dinner was a skimpy ham salad followed by low fat yoghurt and I knew my chance of a supplementary suppertime sandwich were doomed when almost immediately after washing up he got out the hoover and began to vacuum the bread bin. I wouldn't dare extract a slice of bread for fear of shedding crumbs, incurring his domestic wrath and consequently having all the pleasure nagged out of my sandwich.
I hate it when he gets in one of his cleaning frenzies. It usually means he's brooding on something, not that he’ll admit to it. He goes into a kind of self-denial and uses frenetic activity to mask the problem, not just from me, but also from himself.
He's currently sitting on the landing. He’s cleaning and reorganising his makeup box while chatting to Lu on his mobile phone. He’s telling him about his earring victory and how he might now have his helix pierced and maybe even his navel (over my dead body. He fainted when Lu had his done, and he wasn't even there) I admit I'm eavesdropping on the off chance he lets slip a hint of what's domestically driving Miss Stardust.
13th July 2006: Squatters
Jonathan has been out all day with Lulu, Teddy and Kevin on a summer-sale shopping expedition to a retail outlet far, far away. It promises designer labels at irresistible prices. I can't wait for his return, not because I'm keen to see what bargains he's snapped up, but because I'm keen, very, very keen, to hear him explain why there's a hole in the landing ceiling and a herd of reindeer squatting in the loft.
17th July 2006: Global Warming
It's been incredibly hot here today, the hottest day so far and that's saying something. I think it's the most consistent spell of summer sunshine we've had in quite a few years, certainly in this portion of England anyway. I count myself fortunate to work in an office blessed with a ceiling fan otherwise working in front of a heat generating computer all day would be unbearable.
Twinks isn't so lucky. The shop he works in relies on the open door method of ventilation, so it was hardly surprising he was hot, tired and irritable when I picked him up this evening. His irritability increased when it was discovered I'd mistakenly taped over an episode of Hollyoaks he hadn't yet watched. I apologised. He wasn't in a forgiving mood, which he demonstrated by throwing the tape in question at me.
I'm more than willing to make allowances for extenuating and trying circumstances, but I'm not willing to have things hurled at me in temper, no matter what. The tape hit me on the chest and it hurt, but not half as much as his backside did after I took down his trousers, turned him over my knee and spanked it, giving a whole new meaning to the term global warming. I made him do ten minutes corner time and then sent hi
m off to have a cool shower. He felt a bit better afterwards and apologised for taking his temper out on me. He's currently lying on the couch in the buff with the electric fan trained on him.
The heat I'm afraid does nothing to enhance the drag queen temperament. Saturday night at the PP was an edgy affair because of it. Never has the term 'cross-dressers' been more apposite. Wigs, heavy makeup, corsets, stockings and tight fitting high-heeled shoes do not combine well with a heat wave.
Natalie got on everyone’s nerves with her moans and groans about the heat and her warnings that we were all heading for disaster as a result of climate change. She predicted we'd soon be knee deep in stranded polar bears, as the ice caps melted and they all got swept downstream.
Twinks acerbically told her if she shed her tatty wig she'd feel a whole lot cooler and the rest of us would feel a whole lot cooler if she just shut her gob and stopped all the hot air rushing out.
Natalie sat with a face like a stone crow after that, cheering up only when some over exuberant ostrich fanning by Lulu sent a drink crashing into Twinkle's lap.
Twinks furiously grabbed the fan in question, folded it, cuffed Lulu about the head with it and then thrust it into Natalie's drink, snapping, “stick your cocktail cherry on that and then stick it in your mouth and use it as a ball gag.”
He expertly ducked as her heavily beaded evening bag arched towards him. Rick, who was busy collecting empty glasses from the tables, caught the blow on the back of the head and the force of it sent him face first into the voluptuous bosom of a queen called Eatme Candy, who didn't seem in any hurry to fish him out.
It took quite some time to sort out apologies and soothe frayed tempers. Much to Twinkles' displeasure I decided the incident was a good excuse to have an early night and called for a taxi to take us home. I had to be up early on Sunday morning to drive mum and Prissy to the airport. They've flown off to Malta for a holiday. Mum had a moan about it being typical that England had a heat wave just when she'd shelled out a fortune to go abroad in search of sunshine.