by Swan, Tarn
Getting back to mum and Priscilla. They seem to be going through a rocky patch at the moment. She confided yesterday that she was glad he'd gone away for a few days because it gave her some space and she could at least be certain of getting to wear the knickers of her choice without finding he'd gotten them on first... exit Tarn to play in the garden with Dominic leaving Twinks to discuss the issue of knickers with her.
I doubt this particular wraggle taggle gypsy is going to get much joy from his Lady O tonight, not judging from the way the lady in question, who has just awoken, is whining about feeling sick and demanding I stop the room spinning round. I'd best away and assist my gypsy queen.
1st September 2006: Pillion Pain
It was his ladyship’s day off work yesterday. He called mid-morning to tell me Lu was also off and they had decided to take a motorbike ride. They planned to go over to Redcar, one of the seaside towns that dot the coast around here, to visit Peter, an old boyfriend of Lu's and I do mean old. Peter is in his sixties. He has a penchant for much younger men, though not a penchant for long-term commitment to them. He picks them up, seduces them nicely and sets them back down again. Oddly enough he's managed to remain platonic with quite a few of those he's dated bedded and dropped over the years. One of them is Lulu whom he dated about four years ago. Lu isn’t bitter about being dropped. He says Peter made him feel like a million dollars during their brief sexual relationship. He never made any false promises and was always upfront about what he wanted and didn't want.
I've met Peter a few times. He’s a well-groomed businessman with a charming manner. I can see how, aside from his wealth, he manages to attract younger lovers. I'm not sure whether I like or dislike him. I think part of my uncertainty is rooted in suspicion, not to mention rank indignation. Despite knowing Twinks was in a committed relationship Peter once made a move on him, declaring a desire to slip between the sheets with him. Twinks said thanks, but no thanks. Peter, to give him his due gracefully accepted the knock down and never tried it on again.
Twinkles told me all about it and then teased me by asking what I would have done if he had accepted the offer to be Pete's temporary twink. I said I would have killed Peter, framed him for the murder and then visited him in prison every day to threaten him with what I was going to do when he got out and I got him home again. It was an answer, which despite its aspect of dark violence pleased Twinkles, as it proved my love for him.
Anyway, getting back to yesterday. Lu and Twinkles headed off to spend the afternoon with Peter at his beautiful seafront abode and to meet his latest toy boy conquest. I came home from work to an empty house, which depending on my mood I either love or hate. Sometimes the peace is bliss and sometimes it makes me feel miserable and uneasy. I didn't mind too much last night. I was fighting off the tail end of a migraine and I was tired and looking forward to some quiet time.
I heated some tomato soup and ate it in the living room, while admiring the vase of vibrant sunflowers standing on the coffee table. I love sunflowers. They were a gift from Twinkles. He bought them on Tuesday to show his appreciation about me taking a walk on the wild side and turning gypsy for him. He can be such a sweetheart at times and then he goes and does something that makes you despair of his sense.
Enjoyment of both soup and sunflowers was cut short on receipt of a panic-stricken phone call from Lulu. My heart pounded with fright as he informed me they'd had a bit of an accident on their way home and Twinks was hurt. Could I come as soon as possible? I was halfway out the front door already at that point, asking for info about their exact location and the nature of Twinkles' injury.
A wagon had overtaken the motorbike, casting up a large chipping from the recently resurfaced road in the process. It hit Twinkles, who was riding pillion, hard on the leg. Lulu, despite Twink’s screams of shock, which were discernible even through the muffling of two helmets managed to keep control of the bike and bring it to a safe stop by the side of the road. Twinkles promptly passed out on sighting how much blood was pouring from a gash on his calf.
A passing motorist with Samaritan tendencies stopped and provided a bandage and gauze pad from her first aid box to bind his leg. Even so, by the time I arrived on scene, blood was beginning to seep through the dressing. I inspected his leg and knew immediately the cut needed proper medical attention. It wasn’t only a deep wound it was an odd shaped one. It needed professional treatment for it to heal neatly. Twinkles was less than keen and wanted me to take him home and just patch him up with the sticky paper sutures we have in our first aid tin. I told him that like it or not he was going to the hospital accident department.
Once I'd gotten him settled in the car I had a few succinct words with Lulu about the wisdom of allowing a passenger to ride pillion when they were clearly unsuitably attired to do so. Lulu got defensive and said it was impossible to make Twinks change his mind when he was set on a course of action. He had been set on wearing cut off denim shorts that barely covered his arse, let alone his legs.
Have to finish this tale another time. Frank’s just popped in.
3rd September 2006: Post Mortem
It rained steadily all day yesterday. For once Twinkles didn't complain. It gave him an opportunity to use his new twinkly umbrella, which I suspect might be about to become as iconic an item as his pink boa, pink sequin boots and fluffy mules. He's over the moon with it. Gabby is also smitten. Katie and Frank are now fated to track one down for her, as she's put it at the top of her wish list. I promised Katie that should I see a nomadic salesman I would pounce upon him and demand he sell me one.
I could kick myself to be honest. It was a foregone conclusion she would want what her idol has and as it was her birthday not so long ago I could have gotten her one for that. We got her some pretty gold earrings because her parent’s gift was allowing her to get her ears pierced. She and her best friend Molly called round yesterday evening and Twinks made their day by allowing them to borrow the twinkling brolly and parade up and down the dark rain drenched street with it. His act of generosity was slightly marred by the way he watched them like a hawk from the living room window in case they fiddled with something they shouldn't.
He's a bit down today. I offered to take him out to lunch to cheer him up, but he said no. He wanted to stay home, just the two of us. I'll be away next week. I have to go to Bristol on a work related course. I'm going by plane rather than driving. It's faster and has the added advantage of being paid for by work. I fly in the morning and all being well should be back on Thursday evening. He hates me going away, but accepts it as being an occasional aspect of my job.
He's upstairs at the moment doing some ironing and packing my bag. He likes to do that before I go away. He claims it's because I'm a slapdash packer. He's not having me showing him up by going to meetings in sluttish creased shirts, crinkled ties and ill matched socks. In reality him packing for me is an act of affectionate intimacy, just as my drying him after a shower or bath is an act of intimacy.
His leg is still sore after his bike accident, but that’s only to be expected. The cut needed six stitches to close it properly, which doesn’t sound much, but to a man with a needle phobia it might as well have been a hundred. Gas and air were needed in copious amounts, and that was only for the poor doctor who had to insert them. I have never seen a man sweat so much in my life. Poor guy. I reckon after treating Twinks he might possibly have reassessed his calling to be a doctor. Fortunately the stitches are of the dissolvable variety so there's no need for him to return to the hospital to have them removed. He has to keep the dressing dry and insitu for a week. I've threatened him with cruel and unusual punishment if he interferes with it.
He was lucky to get off with a relatively minor injury. It could have been so much worse, a fact I angrily reminded him of all the way home from the hospital. It was a waste of good nagging. He was too doped up on sedatives and painkillers to really take on board what I was saying.
I had to wait until next morning to properly
take him to task, which didn’t suit him. In his opinion it was all over and done with and he didn’t see why I had to dredge it up again. I was more like a bloody coroner than a civil servant, always having to post mortem things. It wasn’t as if he’d stuck out his leg and invited a wagon to cast a rock at it. It had been an accident, pure and simple.
I coldly pointed out that I wasn’t questioning whether or not it had been an accident. What I was questioning was his sanity, because only someone of unsound mind would think a pair of skimpy shorts, a t-shirt and a pair of fancy stiletto heels constituted suitable attire for riding pillion on a motorbike. What the bloody HELL had he been thinking?
He said he’d wanted to look nice, but he wouldn’t expect me to understand that. He was wrong. I did understand. I understood all too well. Vanity was the very crux of the matter. He had risked being maimed for no other reason than wanting to look attractive in front of Peter’s new beau, while also reminding Peter of what he couldn't have. He can't help it. He competes for attention at every level. He knows he has great legs and a sexy bottom and he’d wanted them on show, not shrouded under sensible clothing.
I was especially angry because he and I have had previous discussions regarding appropriate bike gear. I thought we’d come to a clear understanding. Glamour doesn't really go hand in hand with staying safe on a motorbike. By all means put on a touch of mascara and lipstick prior to donning a crash helmet, but that’s it. Heels were a no-no while heavy jeans or leather trousers, of which he owns both, were a requirement. I launched into a tirade of ‘what if.’
What if he hadn't managed to hang on to Lulu? What if he'd lost his balance with fright? It was a bloody miracle he'd managed to keep his feet on the rests while wearing such silly shoes. What if Lulu had lost control of the bike? He could have been killed. At best his exposed limbs would have suffered severe skin and tissue damage from the road surface. A cut was nothing compared to what might have happened, but even that might have been prevented if he'd been wearing thick denims or leathers to shield his flesh from road debris.
He richly deserved to be punished for his foolish behaviour, but on reflection I considered the nature of the accident and the trip to the hospital to be a punishment in itself. I have banned him from riding passenger on Lu’s bike until further notice.
He finally admitted he’d behaved like an idiot. He said he knew he'd made a terrible mistake the moment they set off. He felt more vulnerable than he'd ever felt in his life, especially when the bike leaned to take bends and he could feel his bare legs getting closer to the road surface. He couldn't have let go of Lulu's waist if he tried because it was so frigging cold he was frozen into position. It would have needed a crowbar and an ice scraper to separate them. Even before the stone sliced into his leg he had vowed never to be so stupid again.
Well, that’s enough diarying for today. It’s a gorgeous afternoon. Autumn is definitely on the horizon, but summer is determined to have a going out party and is blessing us with blue skies and sunshine. I'm going to take my beautiful husband out for a short drive in the countryside and then I'll make us dinner and open the bottle of champagne I've hidden away in the bottom of the fridge. We'll spend the rest of tonight cuddled up in bed watching television, though hopefully watching telly won’t be the only thing we do. I need to get in some passion before my trip away.
6th September 2006: Kinky Capers
It's been a long day. I've got a splitting headache. It feels like someone is trying to drive a tent peg through my skull. The course I'm on has been enjoyable and challenging, but I'm ready for home now. I'm not going to go down to the hotel dining room for dinner tonight. I’ve ordered room service. I’m going to finish off some work so I can get away as early as possible tomorrow. I'm missing him in frocks.
I've just finished speaking with him on the phone. He's having a few of the girls around tonight for a makeup and knicker party. Lulu needed a venue to demonstrate the latest range of products from the company he reps for, so Twinks offered to play host in return for some favourable discounts. I've warned him to go easy on the booze and keep the noise down. I don't want to return home and discover he and his drunken cronies were rolling around the front lawn late at night wearing kinky underwear while trying out even kinkier gadgets. (I've seen some of the stuff Lulu sells at these parties. They'd grace a BDSM dungeon)
Twinks haughtily commented that my lack of faith in his ability to conduct himself with propriety and dignity was really rather hurtful. I reiterated that noise and kinky capers were to be kept to a minimum. By way of demonstrating dignity he blew a loud raspberry down the phone and hung up.
I’m going to take some paracetamol, which will hopefully kick in before my dinner arrives.
9th September 2006: Dead Dick and Chocolate Catastrophe
I've got a chronic twitch under my left eye. After consulting with the God of the Internet (aka Google) I discovered it's a condition called myokymia where the nerves go into spasm. I hope it settles down soon because it's driving me up the wall. Twinks hasn’t helped. He says the constant tick makes me look like a hyped up madman on the hunt for a small country to overrun. I wore dark glasses when I went out shopping this morning in case I made people nervous. I didn't fancy being coshed by an over zealous store detective in Asda because I looked like I was gearing up to rob the tills. I read that stress is thought to be one of the triggers for the condition, in which case it's a miracle I don't suffer from a permanent twitch.
Lulu’s birthday brought an air of celebration to the PP last night. The wine flowed like water only with a far more narcotic effect. I warned Twinkles to go easy and pace things out, as unlike Lulu he had work to get up for. He told me not to be a party pooper and continued to knock back wine as if it were going out of fashion. When he became unstable on his high heels I told him enough was enough. Not another drop of wine was to cross his lips.
To be fair he obeyed me to the letter and didn’t touch any more wine. Instead he sojourned to the powder room to help knock back a bottle of tequila, which Lulu had received from Natalie. He and Natalie got into one of their slanging matches, but were both too drunk to follow up with handbag bashing and wig pulling. They ended up looped arm in arm slurring insults and giggling inanely. I had to pour all three of them into a taxi and supervise their delivery home.
After de-robing his majesty the queen and delivering an admonitory wallop to his bare bum, which I doubt he even felt, I removed his makeup and put him to bed, or tried to. He decided he felt amorous and declared his intention to seduce me. His spirit might have been willing but alas his flesh wasn't. It just lay there doing nothing, a victim of one tequila too many. He was outraged and demanded I tell it to pull itself together. Then he got maudlin and clutched at me sobbing and I quote: “he’s dead! He’s dead! Poor Dick is dead. He’s all dead (jiggles it about) never to rise again.” He then crashed to sleep and began snoring loudly.
He was a real sod to get up this morning. I ended up literally dragging him out of bed. He was not pleased and told me it was my fault he had a frigging horrible hangover, as I should have told him to go easy on the drink. I gave him a large glass of fruit juice, two painkillers, several glasses of water and a lecture about wilful misinterpretation of instructions. I followed it up with a slap on the arse and a ban on all alcohol over the weekend. His majesty did not require the pleasure of my company this Saturday lunchtime.
I didn't get away from Bristol as early as hoped last Thursday. I had the chairing of a meeting foisted on me at the eleventh hour. The man who was supposed to do it was called away when his wife went into labour a week earlier than she was supposed to. Babies have no consideration. I wasn't chuffed. I hate chairing meetings at the best of times. I wanted to get home.
Twinkles took the news of my delay much better than I expected. He told me off for being grumpy about the baby situation saying I'd be getting a reputation as one of those ghetto gay men who showed a lack of tolerance for anything outside their sphe
re of personal interest and experience. Ignoring the implication that I was hetrophobic I asked how the knicker party had gone. He said it had gone fine. Lulu had sold much and all had behaved well. No police had been called to break up crowds of boozed up queens fighting over lace thongs and large dongs on the front lawn. He then breezily said he had much to do and he’d see me when he saw me, ta-ta for now. Hmm. He’d been up to something. I could sense it.
I whizzed the meeting along as fast as I could and headed for the airport. My flight was on time and for once the taxi driver at the other end obeyed my instruction to take me home by the shortest possible route instead of detouring around the county as the clock ticked up the fare. As a result I arrived back a bit earlier than originally anticipated. There was no welcoming committee to meet me. Usually when I've been away I can barely make it up the garden path before he launches himself on top of me.
The only thing meeting me when I opened the front door was a wall of music. I recognised the beat of a sixties track. It was coming from the kitchen. I sallied forth. Twinkles and Lulu, attired only in shorts and high heels were standing on the kitchen table holding hands while gazing into each other's eyes and singing the lyrics to The Shirelles song ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.’ Backing vocals and general Sha-la-la-la's were being supplied by fellow Shirelle impersonators, mum and Priscilla who were standing on a worktop doing synchronised hand dancing. Kevin, also in shorts, but barefoot, was standing atop a stepladder sha-la-la'ing his heart out into a paint pad microphone.
The kitchen was in the process of becoming a completely different colour to when I'd left it on Monday morning. No wonder he hadn’t been bothered by my delay. He was too busy decorating behind my back.