by Swan, Tarn
It was true. His month of restriction was indeed up. However, I stabbed a finger at the date on the invoice, it had still been firmly in place on the day he ordered the goods and used his card to pay for them.
He claimed I was being pedantic. I didn't care. I felt like being pedantic. At the time of ordering the overpriced crap he was under restriction and should have sought my permission, which, as he very well knew, he would NOT have received.
Whisking him out of bed and onto his feet I landed a slap to the centre of his bare bottom. All else aside, it was ridiculous shelling out a fortune on two little tubes of cream, which hinted at a promise of eternal youth, as long as you kept using it for the rest of your life. It was a bloody con to encourage vain little fools like him to keep buying chemical laden trash, which probably did more harm than good in the long term.
He tried to guilt me out by tearfully saying looks didn’t matter as much to me as they did to him. If it would make me feel any better and stop me stropping he would send it back and just let the wrinkles overwhelm him. If he looked like a bloodhound by Christmas it would be my fault.
I knew as well as he did that no refunds were given on cosmetic items. I felt obliged to point out that my ‘strop’ was not so much because he’d been foolish enough to spend a fortune on useless products, it was because of his lackadaisical attitude to me. I had issued a specific instruction. I expected him to follow it regardless of whether or not it suited him.
In his opinion I was being mean for refusing to understand his need for anti aging beauty products, citing his grey hair again. I reiterated that the issue had nothing to do with imaginary grey hairs and extortionately priced beauty products. It was to do with him directly ignoring the terms of a punishment I had imposed. A punishment I thought was lenient in the circumstances. Maybe leniency wasn't what he needed. Maybe what he needed was a harsh reality check regarding the structure of our relationship.
Pulling out the dressing table stool I sat down and manoeuvred him over my knee. Taking the controversial products I placed them on the floor under his nose telling him to take a good look at them, a good look, because he was going to use every last illicit drop and every time he slapped it on his face I wanted him to remember what it felt like having my hand slap his backside. I then set about giving him a spanking. He deserved it. He had decided that buying a silly trifle was more important than respect and loyalty to me. By the time the spanking ended he was in floods of tears and declaring me to be a brute.
I compounded his misery by suspending all credit card transactions, regardless of amount, for another month. He'd expected as much, so though it didn't please him, it didn't shock him. My next words did though. His face fell, as I informed him that for the next week his cash-spending limit was three pounds per day. Any amounts over and above would need my approval first, even for a couple of pence. He yelled that he could barely buy a sandwich and a drink for less than three fucking pounds! I promptly extended the cash restriction to two weeks and dropped the amount by fifty pence because of his attitude, adding that I expected to see receipts for everything he bought.
The bedroom carpet ended up having an expensive facial, as he stamped on and burst one of the tubes of face cream. The other was flung at my head along with the declaration that when I got in one of these moods I was a prize bastard. He hated me and wished he’d never consented to such a horrible, repressive lifestyle.
I confirmed my award winning status by turning him back over my knee and making his sore bottom even sorer before sending him back to bed with the instruction he was to stay there until I phoned him from work and gave him permission to get up. When he was allowed up he was to refer everything back to me for the rest of the day. If he needed to pee he had to clear it with me first. If he wanted to make coffee he had to ask. If he wanted to leave the house he had to get permission. I would be calling him every half hour on the house phone to check on him.
Pounding his pillow with his fists he sobbed that he would rather stick his dick in his mouth and drink his own piss than ask permission to go to the loo from a bastard like me. I issued a warning. Should he call me a bastard just once more I would make him write out the details on my birth certificate so many times he'd be able to qualify as a Registrar.
It was a difficult day for both of us, but especially for him. It was a relief when it was over.
Until today Twinkles has adhered to the terms of his punishment without complaint, not even about the cash restriction, which ends this coming Monday.
There was a second less important reason why I refused his request to make a purchase from the nomadic salesman today. The nomad in question, or one very like him and working for the same company paid a visit to my offices yesterday. He distracted my staff from their work with samples from his box of delights. Tribes of these nomads appear once or twice a year, claiming to have wonders never seen in any high street shop. I of course disdain to even view their wares and remain closeted in my office, while graciously permitting my staff time out to browse.
A veritable cacophony of sounds, the type usually reserved for firework displays, from the aforementioned staff tempted me out of seclusion to see what had prompted it. It was an umbrella, a black umbrella, but not just any umbrella. The canopy of this umbrella was studded with dozens of fibre optic led lights, operated by batteries in the handle. I gave an involuntary 'ooh' as the nomad demonstrated and the umbrella began to prettily twinkle with stars of purple light.
Before I knew it, my name was on an order sheet along with just about every other member of staff. I had signed to pay twenty-five pounds on receipt of a twinkling twilight umbrella for my very own Twinkles. I knew he would adore it - his phone call today confirming it. He doesn’t know I’ve got one on order. I want it to be a proper surprise.
So, to return to present matters, in the doghouse I am. He barely spoke to me on the way home this evening. There was no smile or kiss of greeting. My status as a kennel boarder was confirmed when on arriving home I presented him with my birth certificate and a pad of paper along with an instruction to write out the certificate details ten times, paying particular attention to the part declaring my parent's marital status, which confirms, in terms of law at least, that I am not a bastard.
We're not going out this evening. It's grab a tran gran night at the PP. I asked him in frocks if he wanted to go the cinema to watch Pirates instead, but he said he'd rather watch wood warp in solitary confinement than watch anything with a heartless beast like me. At this rate the film will be out on DVD before I get to see it.
He's just found the box of continental chocolates I put in the fridge earlier and is casually enquiring from whence they came and for whom they are intended. I think I might be about to be upgraded to human status once again.
26th August 2006: Cherry Popping!
I've caught Twinkles’ cold. I've got an uncomfortable prickling at the back of my nose and throat. It's a foregone conclusion that if he catches a cold I'll end up catching it too and not just because we share proximity, but because he leaves his snotty, germ laden tissues all over the place and I end up putting them in the bin. It drives me mad. He has some disgusting habits. He says I'm not exactly Snow White and I have a few grotesque habits of my own, like the way I rake a cotton wool bud around my lughole and then examine it to see what I've poked out. Well, we all have to have a hobby.
Karen inadvertently accelerated my upgrade from heartless beast to human again last night. She called to ask if we would baby-sit on Sunday morning while she and Paul took her parents to the airport. She feared Dominic would get bored and fractious if the flight was delayed due to all the extra security measures in operation. I said we'd be delighted. Twinks then took the phone for a chat while stuffing his face with chocolates. Despite his best attempts to stop me I swiped a Viennese truffle from the box before going for a shower leaving him to gossip his heart out.
When I returned downstairs I found the living room seductively lit by lampligh
t. A bottle of red wine and two glasses were set on the coffee table. He'd saved me a chocolate, one of my favourites, the coffee surprise, sans the coffee bean, which usually adorned the luscious treat. I asked what had happened to it. He claimed it had fallen into his mouth by accident. I forgave him. He was altogether cuddly, attentive and affectionate and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Karen had told him about the umbrella.
He said I wasn't to scold her, she hadn't realised it was meant to be a surprise. He then scolded me for not telling him and making him think I was a miserly, dictatorial, he almost said bastard, but didn't dare after the business with the birth certificate and substituted the word swine instead. See, deterrents do work.
We shared some kisses and cuddles and were just getting intimate when Lulu landed. He still has a key from when he stayed with us and thinks nothing of using it. At least he bawled hello as he came into the hall. We sprang apart like two guilty teenagers, hurriedly stuffing our accoutrements away out of sight.
Annoyance vanished the moment Lu walked into the living room. He had a black eye, a real shiner. He soothed our concerns saying it had been an accident. Helping himself to a glass of wine he downed it in one and flopped down on the couch between us. He was obviously shaken. We demanded he divvy up details.
He'd been out on a date with a guy from one of the agencies he's joined. It had ended in disaster. The guy in question, while not bad looking, had turned out to be even weirder than the last agency guy he’d gone out with, the one who kept his date’s used condoms in a special album labelled with their owner's names and details of their sexual performance.
Twinks wanted to know how anyone could be weirder than that? This one had offered him a drink from a can of Coke. So what was weird about that? At the time the can was wedged up his arse!
Apparently this bloke's bedroom party piece was something called 'popping the cherry' which involved opening a can of cherry cola by first shaking it and then shoving it up his bottom and contracting his anus to pop the seal on the ring pull. His dates were supposed to be impressed by the sheer capacity and power of his sphincter, as well as the arch of cool liquid refreshment shooting out of his backside. Unfortunately on this occasion he inserted the can with the ring pull facing the wrong way, first date nerves perhaps, and had thus given himself a fizzy cola enema. Not only that, but the can had shot out of his arse like a rocket and hit Lu smack in the eye.
We tried not to laugh, but when Lu said, somewhat plaintively, that he wouldn't have minded so much but he didn’t even like cherry coke he preferred plain, we cracked up. Fortunately Lulu saw the funny side too. He giggled, saying he'd almost had a fit when he finished undressing in the bedroom and had turned round to see his date lying on the bed busily pushing a can of coke into his back passage. He said his instinct was to run, but he was rooted to the spot like a mesmerised rabbit. He couldn't drag his eyes away and when invited to bend and drink it seemed rude to refuse.
Poor Lulu! He doesn't have much luck with boyfriends. There has to be someone out there for him.
28th August 2006: Wraggle Taggle Gypsy O
I've spent much of today being a wraggle taggle gypsy O. I didn't want to be a wraggle taggle gypsy O. I don't consider myself to be wraggle taggle gypsy material. For a start I'm too tall and too fair to pass off as a bona fide gypsy. Twinkles, whose idea it was for me to transform from dull civil servant to exciting Romany said I was just being awkward and furthermore I had a very prejudicial view of what gypsies looked like. Who was I to say that gypsies couldn't be tall and fair as well as short and dark? Gypsies, just like gay and straight people came in all shapes and sizes. He said if I put my mind to it I could be a perfectly good gypsy O. I said not likely O. He accused me of being a spoilsport and claimed I had no imagination. He wheedled and cajoled. I'd look dead sexy as a gypsy, think of the bedroom fun it could lead to. I remained adamant. This civil servant was not for turning.
In the end he did the dirty and dragged my mother in on the act. We took Dominic over to see her when we babysat him yesterday morning. She agreed with his ‘unimaginative spoilsport’ assessment. She told me I take after my father who also has no imagination. I said seeing as he had married her he must have had some imagination. I meant it as a kind of compliment, but she took it as cheek and snatching up a plastic spatula whacked me across the backside with it. Twinks promptly requested she give me another one on his behalf and wicked mother that she is she did. It flaming well hurt too. She put some force behind it!
By the time we left mum’s house I had caved in to pressure and testily assented to spending bank holiday Monday masquerading as a wraggle taggle gypsy O, as part of the PP summer picnic antics. It isn't so much the dressing up I mind. It’s the going on stage. I'm not a natural thespian. I prefer to be audience rather than actor.
The summer picnic usually has a Hollywood musical theme, but after much committee in fighting and some hair pulling as to what musical it should be, Brian took charge and cancelled Hollywood. He decreed a competition event involving pirates and gypsies. Participants were divided into two teams with each team having to come up with a selection of appropriate songs and acts.
As per usual people willing to play male roles were in short supply, as every truehearted dragster and transvestite wanted to squeeze into a frock. Maurice, who's a bit bi when it comes to drag had originally agreed to stay male for the gypsy team, but had to drop out as a performer after putting his back out doing something unspecified on Friday night. Both he and Teddy are remaining coy about what happened.
Twinks promised I wouldn't be called upon to do anything too taxing. All I had to do was loiter in the background while smouldering seductively and pretending to play a gypsy violin at intervals. He said I'd be fine if I had a few drinks beforehand to help me relax.
I have to admit I did enjoy today. I wasn't nearly as self-conscious as I thought I might be, possibly because I took Twinks' advice and consumed several alcoholic beverages before things got underway. Once I'd conquered the terror of actually stepping on stage I was fine and loitered in a fairly respectable gypsyish manner.
Twinkles played the theatre matriarch, giving me encouraging looks and words of advice, claiming he'd always known he'd make a performer out of me. I told him that one performer in the house was more than enough and if he thought I was going to start wearing leg warmers and applying for the chorus in Fame he could think again. My treading the boards was a one off. All the same I was just as chuffed as he was when our team was declared winner.
What clinched it for the gypsy team was a beautiful performance of a traditional folk ballad called The Wraggle Taggle Gypsies O! Lulu as narrator sang the song, with Twinks playing the part of the Lady in the story. I made up one of the three gypsies who sing at the castle gate and tempt the Lady away. The song was another of those taught to Lulu by his mother. I think it gave his rendition a truly poignant edge.
For Twinks the day was marred only by the absence of archenemy Natalie. He’d wanted her around to witness his triumph. The selfish bitch (his words) had abandoned piracy to go away at the last minute with a gentleman friend who had offered a free holiday. Twinks sarcastically pointed out that Natalie knew as well as anyone that there was no such thing as a free holiday. He’d be paying if not through the nose then at least through something else.
It's just as well the summer picnic takes place indoors, as the weather this bank holiday, certainly in our neck of the woods, has been mixed to say the least. We started off with bright sunshine this morning, then the wind got up and to top it off we had hailstones the size of marbles at teatime.
Him in gypsy skirts got absolutely slaughtered, as did Lulu and as I write they're both sound asleep on the couch. They look like a couple of Romany lesbians snuggled up together in a tangle of skirts, ribbons, bangles and beads.
Speaking of lesbians my mother is in the kitchen conversing with two authentic and less exotically attired lesbians, namely Val and Sandra.
&nb
sp; My presence was not required. I was handed a mug of tea, a chocolate digestive and shooed out of my own kitchen. Priscilla wasn’t at the picnic this afternoon. He’s away visiting his daughter and I think mum wanted to have a girl-to-girl moan about him.
Funnily enough, though mum has always been very accepting of male gayness she’s tended to be a bit defensive and stand offish around Val and Sandra. Twinks suggested it might be because she felt threatened similar to the way some straight men feel threatened in the company of gay men, fearful of being preyed on or contaminated or something. I think he was right. Her attitude changed when she took up with Priscilla. Daft as it sounds I think taking up with a man who spends a fair amount of time dressed as a woman has given her some unexpected insights into female homosexuality. My mother has always had a convoluted way of thinking. Whatever the reason, she's much more relaxed and friendly with Val and Sandra now, which is nice because I've known them for years and I love them dearly.
I met Val during my first civil service posting. At the time she was one of the few people I'd ever encountered who was open about her sexuality in her everyday life. It didn't always do her a lot of favours. She said she'd rather be honest about who she was, and suffer some discomfort, than be forced to live a lie in order to pander to other people's sense of comfort about what constituted 'normality.' Why the hell shouldn't she talk about her girlfriend the way everyone else in the office talked about their respective boyfriends and girlfriends? Acceptance, she said, was not just about accepting yourself. It was about making other people accept you and you couldn't do that if you spent half your life hiding your sexual orientation and living underground.