SWAN SONGS
Tarn Swan
extracts From My Life With Stardust Twinkles
December 29th 2004-to-December 29th 2005
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 Tarn Swan
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Cover Design Copyright (C) 2010
by Donna Casey: http://DigitalDonna.com
In Memoriam Steven K. 2nd January 1971 to 25th January 2005
After Darkness, Light…rest, until we meet again, our dear friend
Extracts from my life with Stardust Twinkles
29th December 2004:
Hello And Welcome To My Life
I’ve often talked about keeping a journal, but have done little about it until now. I’m no Samuel Pepys let’s be clear on that, but I think I’ve got a tale or two to tell and a song worth singing about life with my partner Stardust Twinkles or to give him his proper birth name Jonathan Lane, and to that end this diary is dedicated. Twinkles isn’t the sort of person you can easily categorize. He’s a gay man with transvestite tendencies. He’s also a drag queen upon occasion and in his case a drama queen pretty much 24/7. If you’re insistent on a label then you could say he’s transgender or gender fluid depending on how you view these things. I suppose the best way to categorise him is actually not to try and categorise him. He simply is who he is and I love him to bits even when he’s driving me mad. I have to report that he’s not always easy to live with.
My name, I may as well get it out of the way, is Tarn. Yep, unusual isn’t it? Scottish in origin I believe, and my surname is, wait for it, Swan…pause for sniggers to die down…yes I know tarn means lake, that’s me, Swan Lake. You can imagine the hilarity it caused at school registration sessions, mainly among the teachers I might add. My parents gave little thought to the fact that the Christian name they both liked, in honour of a Scottish uncle on my mother’s side (who reputedly has lots of money to leave when he finally shuffles off this mortal coil) didn’t team particularly well with the surname Swan. Of course my being homosexual, or gay, or queer, or whatever term you prefer to apply, adds to the hilarity some folk seem obliged to feel whenever I introduce myself. I’m well aware everyone in my office calls me Rudolf Nureyev behind my back. I don’t mind too much. I like to think it’s affectionately meant and they did come up with a cracking Christmas present for me this year, a pair of ballet tickets for a new production of the gay version of Swan Lake. Okay, as gifts go it’s slightly tongue in cheek, but all the same I’m really looking forward to it. I haven’t told Twinkles yet. It’s no good telling him such things too far ahead of time; he just goes overboard with excitement.
At the best of times Twinkles, as he likes to be known, isn’t what you’d call a morning person and this morning as soon became clear, wasn’t the best of times. Despite me yelling from the foot of the stairs that time was moving on and he was going to make us late for work he refused to shift his bum from bed. He resorted to retrieving one of his high heels from under the bed and chucking it across the floor fondly thinking it would fool me into thinking he was up and about. I resorted to threats yelling if he didn’t move his little arse out of bed pronto there’d be tears before breakfast, and they wouldn’t be mine.
Ten minutes later he appeared in the kitchen wearing nothing but a sullen expression and a pair of fluffy, silver-pink high-heeled mules. The ones I’d bought him for Christmas. He loves them. While Twinkles and nudity are usually a favourite combination of mine, it was a chilly morning and I did think he was risking getting a cold. I suggested he might like to put his dressing gown on. Cue action. Apparently, his favourite silk kimono with black feather trim was no longer in favour, because it made him look fat and he wasn’t wearing it ever again. I gave an inward sigh at that point. It was that time of year again. The festivities were all but over and people were weighing up the cost, both financially and in terms of over indulgence on the rich foods that had been on offer over the festive period. I told him he looked exactly the same as he had before Christmas, absolutely gorgeous and not to worry about a bitchy comment made by a recent arrival and new rival at The Pink Parrot Club the night before. (The Pink Parrot is the hub of our social life; it caters for the cross-dressing and gay fetish communities. The leather boys downstairs and transgender ladies upstairs) Despite my assurances he remained adamant. He’d gained weight. It wasn’t just his kimono that made him look fat either. It was everything.
I pointed out that he’d have to find something to wear as he could hardly turn up at the Jewellers shop he worked in, wearing nothing but a pair of fluffy mules, no matter how pretty they were. He wasn’t going to frigging work as he hated the first frigging day back after frigging Christmas because it was always frigging mayhem with people returning the shit presents they’d been bought and demanding frigging refunds. I could just phone him in frigging sick because he was sick, absolutely sick of frigging work. I told him I’d do no such thing and was it really necessary for him to frig quite so much. As far as I was concerned he was going to work, end of discussion. Sometimes he needs someone to make decisions for him because he gets beyond making them for himself, sensible ones anyway.
Ushering him upstairs I began the thankless task of helping him find something to go with the grey suit that is obligatory attire for assistant managers.
Sitting on the bed, arms folded, legs crossed, he proceeded to turn his cute little nose up at everything I suggested. The pink shirt was too tight it made him look like a bloated marzipan pig (his words, not mine) The blue shirt was the wrong shade of blue it made his skin look dirty. The lavender shirt was just so out of fashion he’d have to be declared officially dead before even considering putting it on his body, his loathsome fat body, and incidentally, it was all my fault he’d gained weight in the first place. I should have stopped him eating so much chocolate over Christmas. After all I was supposed to be his Dominant and what kind of rotten Dom would allow his partner to get fat on chocolate? I said the type of Dom who didn’t know his partner was stuffing his greedy face with sweets from the giant tin of Quality Street that he’d slyly stashed under his side of the bed without my knowledge. Huh, he curled his lip and said if I was a half decent Dom I’d have spotted that one straight away. I said unlike the fictitious domestic Doms he read about I wasn’t psychic.
He continued to reject any clothing I offered. The lemon shirt was just yuck he’d seen more attractive shades of bile, it would make him look jaundiced and he wouldn’t even consider being seen dead in it. In fact it was too vile to even be cremated in and didn’t I know, ducky, that lemon was even more out of fashion than lavender and was I trying to destroy his fashion reputation? Then why don’t you just wear a plain white one, I said reasonably, through gritted teeth. He flung a fit. WHITE, he screeched. I’m not wearing a white shirt. Do I look like a boring straight accountant? I don’t think so! As well as the fit, he flung the shirt and a copy of Hello Magazine before kicking his mules across the bedroom in one of his trademark, post Christmas, going back to work tantrums. One of them crashed into the wardrobe door leaving an ugly scratch.
I lost patience with him. In my opinion he was being plain naughty and I wasn’t putting up with it. Hauling him up from the bed I gave his bare bottom a damn good smacking. He still wasn’t speaking to me when I dropped him off at work. I watched him flounce across the pavement looking very smart in his grey suit with white shirt and navy blue silk tie. The bright pink sequinned boots and pink boa he wore in lieu of a scarf looked a little incongruous, but a transvestite come drag queen’s nature will out even when they’re largely in ‘civvies.’ Uttering a prayer for him to be in a better mood when I picked him up, I set off for my own place of work.
31st December 2004:
A Stitch In Time
As it transpired he was still in a foul mood when I collected him from work the day before yesterday. He was horrible to be around, bitching, sniping and moaning about everything. I told him he seemed tired and insisted he went to bed early for the sake of sanity, my sanity that is. He wasn’t much better next morning declaring his intention to live on hot water and lemon juice for a week as a means of losing his yuletide weight gain, which turned out to be a ‘hefty’ two pounds. I declared my intention of being very pissed off with him if he even tried such a silly fad diet. Sensible eating and cutting out rubbishy foods would be more than sufficient. He gave me a sour look and claimed he wasn’t the only one who had put on weight over Christmas and maybe I should consider the lemon juice diet for a fortnight, if not a month. I said maybe I should consider walloping his bitchy backside several shades of crimson, as a means of losing my professed weight gain by vigorous exercise. That shut him up.
Thankfully he was a lot brighter this morning and looking forward to getting dressed up and celebrating the New Year in a new frock…black and glittery, cut low on the cleavage with a matching stole and a new pair of sparkly strappy sandals. He phoned me at the office at half past eleven in a state approaching euphoria. Brian, a good friend of ours and the owner of The Pink Parrot Club, had just called to offer him, at long last, a spot on stage at the PP, and this very night too, New Year’s Eve. The place would be buzzing and packed to the doors with representatives from every sector of the cross dressing community, from drag queens to transsexuals and every variation in between. As luck would have it one of the clubs dedicated chorus girls, Lulukalala, or as his mother knows him, Fred Easby, had come a cropper the night before when he’d been hailing a taxi to take him home. He’d caught one of his six-inch stilettos in a crack in the pavement and badly turned his ankle. The Pink Parrot was therefore short of a dancer/singer to back the resident Star of the Cabaret session, esteemed songster and drag queen Ms Cherie Pie. How had that led to Twinkle being offered the position? Well, Lulu happens to be Twinkles’ best friend and had taught him all his dance routines and show numbers. It was he who put forward Twinks’ name as a suitable short notice stand in.
After putting the phone down I experienced a conflict of emotions, pleasure for Twinkles, because this was a big thing for him. He’s been hankering and pestering to be given an ‘official’ chance on stage for long as I’ve known him, but Cherie and her backing girls haven’t been forthcoming. Amateur drag queens, like any artistes, guard their positions jealously. They don’t like the thought of anyone grabbing their limelight. They’d go on stage even if they had smallpox to prevent anyone else getting a look in. I also experienced some trepidation, which you’d appreciate if you knew Twinks as well as I do. I know what he’s like when he gets carried away with something. Tears and tantrums are likely to follow, along with grandiose plans that have no basis in reality. Still, it was good to hear the happy excitement in his voice. I went out at lunchtime and after ordering a get-well bouquet for Lulu asked the florist to make up an old fashioned corsage of pink orchids and white roses. Twinkles loves those old Hollywood films where the romantic heroine gets presented with a floral corsage shortly before being taken to the ball. I also popped into Debenhams where they had a sale on, and bought him the peach satin, diamante trimmed, Janet Reger bra and matching thong he’d been admiring for a while. When my boy dresses up there are no half measures, he does it properly from underwear to makeup.
It being New Year’s Eve most businesses were closing up earlier than usual, including my office and Twinkles’ shop. I was therefore rather annoyed when I turned up to collect him only to find he’d cried off even earlier, claiming a migraine and had taken a taxi home. Migraine my backside, the little fibber! He’d have been itching to get home and start getting ready for his big moment at the PP. See what I mean about excitement getting the better of him? I geared up to have a few stern words with him, letting me go to pick him up indeed. However, the house was quiet and in darkness when I got home. I was surprised and a bit worried. He’d left work early enough, he should have been home. He was.
Turning on the sitting room light I discovered him curled up on the couch, his face bearing evidence of some heavy crying. He had red swollen eyelids, a red tipped nose and mascara streaking his cheeks. All my disapproval forgotten I knelt down on the floor, reaching my arms around him. He clung to me, telling me in tragically whispered gulps and sobs what ailed him. It didn’t fit. Lulu’s costume didn’t fit him. Brian had dropped it off, telling him he had to be dressed and ready to go through a quick rehearsal with the other girls at the PP at eight on Cherie’s strict orders. The bathroom scales had obviously lied. He’d put on more than two pounds, he must have, because the red sequinned, split to the thigh sheath dress just wouldn’t zip up, not even when he put his firmest girdle on. He was a fat failure and his life in frocks was over.
I cuddled and comforted, while wracking my brains to find a way of salvaging the situation for my baby. Leaving him steeping in a hot scented bubble bath with two rounds of sliced cucumber cooling and soothing his sore eyes, I took a deep breath and phoned my mother. We had a bit of a falling out at Christmas when Twinkles insulted her new curtains, saying they looked like something you’d find in a cheap seaside boarding house. They had a right old row, too much wine and rich food just doesn’t bring out their best sides. Despite my profuse apologies, she’d taken real offence and hadn’t spoken to us since, leaving the answer phone on to field calls and not returning any of mine. When my mother takes the huff she does it properly. As expected, I got the answer phone again. I told it all about Twinkles’ situation and was just on the verge of hanging up, when to my relief mum herself came on, enquiring as to the colour of the dress so she could bring the right shade of thread with her sewing machine.
By the time Twinkles was fully made up and wigged, mum had come up trumps with the dress, unpicking and letting out the seams before re-stitching them. It fitted perfectly and he looked divine in it. Swinging mum off her feet he finally apologised for his rudeness at Christmas, told her he loved her and invited her to join us at the club. She gracefully accepted and asked to borrow one of his frocks. She’s never had a problem with his transvestism, she jokes that it makes us seem more like a normal straight couple. In fact she introduces him to people as her daughter in law. Brian has picked up Twinkles to take him to the PP for the rehearsal and mum and I will go down a bit later.
1st January 2005:
Happy New Year
Happy New Year! 2005 lays…lies…whatever…full steam ahead. As I write Twinkles is still abed. He reckons he’s dying and keeps demanding I call a member of the medical profession. I keep telling him that no doctor on earth is going to come out on New Years Day to treat a man with a self-inflicted hangover. He took time out from dying to glare at me over the top of his black satin eye mask and call me a heartless beast. I left a large glass of water and two paracetamol on his bedside table, with instructions to wash the latter down with the former. I suspect that he’s exaggerating about how bad he feels, so he can stay safely in bed and put off the discussion I’ve promised we’re going to have with regard to certain goings on last night.
It all started so well. Twinkles was very excited about what he termed his ‘first real showbiz break,’ and couldn’t wait to get on stage in front of his audience. I noted his possessive claim on the assembled crowd with slight disquiet and warned him not to get too carried away with inflated notions of stardom. He nodded impatiently, while mumbling something about stripy leg warmers and auditions for Fame, which was beginning a new nationwide theatre tour. He wouldn’t allow me to give him a kiss for luck before he went on, fearful lest he got an erection that would jeopardise his careful tucking.
Actually, when his turn to take the floor arrived I thought he was going to get stage fright, poor lamb. He looked terrified, but as soon as the music started up he was fine. In fact he got a bit over confident at one point, not to mention cocky and began improvising on the dance routine he was supposed to be doing in the background with the rest of the chorus line. He ended up cutting in front of the leading lady, Cherie Pie, just as she was going for a high note in her rendition of, ‘It’s Raining Men.’ Cherie, understandably, wasn’t pleased. Flicking open her large feather fan she had a discreet word with Twinkles. Unfortunately the microphone relayed the discreet word to every nook and cranny of the PP club. I say word; it was actually two words, the first beginning with F. As mum said, rather primly, it was no language for a lady, not even a lady who worked as a brickie on a building site by day. She kept giving Cherie dirty looks after that and at the end of the number made a point of only applauding Twinks and his fellow backing artistes. My mother is one of those people who are fiercely loyal to family and Twinkles regardless of the fact that he frequently rubs her up the wrong way, is family. If Cherie weren’t careful she’d end up with mum’s handbag ringing in the New Year around her ears.
Twinks was as high as a kite when he came off stage. He was still wearing his costume and had pinned my corsage of orchids and roses onto one of the straps. Every inch the Hollywood Starlet he weaved in and out of the crowd, positively sparkling, greeting friends with theatrical screeches, demanding praise for his performance, doling out hugs and kisses, offering autographs and flirting with absolutely everyone in sight. I didn’t mind. I enjoy seeing him happy and I knew the only person taking him home would be me. Midnight came and went. Mum left for home shortly after seeing in the New Year with us. She got a lift from Priscilla the Preacher, a straight cross dresser so called because he teaches Religious Studies at one of the local Catholic colleges.
I was chatting with friends when I suddenly noticed that Twinks was getting rather unsteady on his high heels, in fact not rather, but very. I hurried across to him just in time to prevent him crashing to the ground as he caught his heel in the hem of his gown. I was cross. I’d kept an eye on how much he was drinking, firmly telling him to make his sixth glass of Champagne his absolute last. He’d obviously been quaffing on the sly. I sat him down at a table before he fell down and told him to stay put while I found a quiet place from which to try and summon the cab I’d pre-booked a little earlier than arranged.
I was gone less than ten minutes, stepping outside in the fresh air to use my cell phone. I’d just finished the call when Brian, breathless and wild eyed, shot out of the door and told me to get back inside pronto because Twinkles was involved in a row and it was getting ugly.
I arrived on scene to find Twinkles holding his rival Natalie, the one who had told him he was getting fat, in a headlock, while screeching a torrent of invective. Tearing at Natalie’s curly blond wig, he ripped it off and hurled it across the dance floor to the cheers of the patrons who were enjoying the spectacle. Natalie retaliated by raking her false nails down Twinkles’ leg, badly laddering his tights. Blood spillage seemed imminent. Brian grabbed a screeching Natalie and hustled her off and I grabbed Twinkles, restraining him. Thankfully we didn’t have to wait too long before the taxi showed up. Much to the driver’s amusement Twinkles fell asleep, snoring the whole way home. I had to carry him indoors, undress him, and remove his wig, false eyelashes and makeup before putting him to bed. He would never have forgiven me if I’d let him go to sleep with makeup still on his face, like some cheap slut. No doubt I’ll find out in due course what sparked the fight between him and Natalie, not that it takes much. Life with Twinkles is a lot of things, but no one can ever say it’s dull.
2nd January 2005:
Rustlings In The Night
Strange rustlings woke me at four this morning. I feared that mice had invaded the bedroom. Then I realised the sounds were coming from Twinkles side of the bed. I lay for a few moments enjoying the sheer silliness of him trying to eat sweets in the dark while trying not to wake me up. He’d reach very carefully under the bed, pick one out of the tin he had stashed there, and then very, very slowly unwrap it before putting it in his mouth and trying to chew it silently, which is very difficult with a toffee. In his efforts to authenticate how ill he felt yesterday he’d stayed in bed for the duration, refusing to eat anything except the odd slice of dry toast. Hunger had obviously gotten the better of him.
I craftily waited until he reached for the next sweet before suddenly snapping the bedside lamp on. He got such a fright that he almost fell out of bed. He tried to claim that he’d been sleep-eating and knew nothing about it and that I could have killed him by switching the light on like that, sadistic bastard that I was. I sadistically confiscated the sweets.
He finally dragged himself out of bed at half past eight, coming down into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his balls in his usual morning fashion. Seating himself at the table he gave me a sour look as I poured him a cup of tea from the Clarice Cliff teapot he’d bought me for Christmas. ‘You’re not supposed to use that,’ he said, ‘it’s a decorative collectors item’ (Twinkles likes me to collect things and the teapot indicated exactly what he’d like me to collect over the coming year) It’s a teapot I said reasonably, you make tea in it. Raising his right buttock from the chair he delicately farted by way of reply. Considering he spends a proportion of his life parading around in feminine attire, none of the fairer sexes more refined sensibilities seem to have rubbed off on his base male side. Though as he said, it was a fallacy that women didn’t fart, they were just much more cunning about it. He also claimed I scratched my tackle and exuded wind just as often as he did, but I’m sure I don’t, or if I do, I do it with a modicum more grace and discretion.
I reminded him we had some issues that needed discussing, including him crying off work early and subsequently reducing the bathroom scales, expensive ones, to a heap of nuts, bolts and springs on New Year’s Eve. We duly discussed. He admitted he shouldn’t have skived off work leaving the rest of the staff short handed on a busy day and yes he could and should have called me and stopped me making an unnecessary journey. He admitted that bouncing the bathroom scales across the landing in a rage had been childishly destructive, and yes he’d gone on drinking long after I’d told him to stop, but it wasn’t every night you got your big break into show business and it deserved to be celebrated. Plus it had been New Year’s Eve and everyone knows it’s bad luck not to get drunk on New Year’s Eve.
Then we moved onto the debacle with his Jenny come lately rival, Natalie, queen of the peroxide wigs. Twinkles admitted that maybe, just maybe, he might have triggered the row that led to the fight when he overheard Natalie bragging that she had scored a date for later and he had made the comment: ‘who with, Bobby Palm and his five brothers,’ while making illustrative hand gestures. Natalie had rounded on him, saying it was fortunate that Twinks had found someone who had a kink for chubby little queens with no taste in clothes. She had then poked a disparaging finger at his corsage saying it looked like something that a member of the Women’s Institute would wear to a funeral. Well, nobody pokes Twinkles’ orchids and gets away with it. He told Natalie that her wig looked like something Dolly Parton reserved for cleaning the car with. Natalie had then snatched his corsage off and stamped on it, so Twinkles reckoned honour demanded he do the same to her wig. Honour also seemed to demand that he puncture one of her expensive silicone breasts with his teeth. I suggested that perhaps it might be a good idea if he made an effort to bury the rivalry between him and Natalie. He said the only thing he’d like to bury was Natalie, preferably with a wooden stake through her heart. I told him that he could replace our bathroom scales and Natalie’s left tit at his own expense.
We were supposed to be going over to Brian and Steven’s place for dinner this evening to celebrate Steven’s birthday, but Brian apologetically called to say that the cold Steve had caught at Christmas seemed to be settling on his chest and he wasn’t feeling too well. I told Brian not to worry and sent Stevie our love and get well soon wishes.
3rd January 2005:
Arachnophobia
This year’s festive period seems to have gone on forever. It’s always the same when Christmas falls on a weekend. Today is yet another Bank Holiday. I’ll be glad when it’s all finally over and we can get back into something resembling a normal routine again.
I got a heck of a fright this morning. I was downstairs in the kitchen in the process of making some tea when the most terrible screams came from upstairs, accompanied by footsteps galloping up and down the landing in frenzied panic. I dashed upstairs, my heart pounding, wondering what the hell was going on. Twinkles, wild eyed and naked, leapt into my arms, tightly wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist, babbling about being attacked, while pointing at his second favourite dressing gown, which lay abandoned on the landing. I was puzzled. I know it has a fur trim around it, but it’s fake and I truly couldn’t see it attacking him.
It turned out that when he finally got his arse out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to begin his morning ablutions, he’d discovered one of his false eyelashes perched on the bar of soap on the sink. It’s a frequent occurrence, you get used to finding his eyelashes all over the place. I found one in the milk jug once. Anyway, he reached out to retrieve it, only as he did so it uncurled itself and turned into a monster spider. As soon as he touched it, it leapt straight up the sleeve of his dressing gown, scurrying up his arm. He hates spiders, he really does. I must admit when I picked up his dressing gown and saw it; I didn’t blame him for screaming. I wouldn’t have been too keen to have it running amuck over my skin. It was one of those great big ugly garden spiders, the type that hunts and jumps on its prey. I released it back into the wild suppressing several unmanly shudders as I did so. He’s still upset, he’s lying on the couch in the sitting room with a cold compress on his forehead. To cheer him up, I’ve promised to give him a foot massage and paint his toenails this afternoon. There’s a charity do on at the PP this evening and he wants to wear some gold open toed sandals and thus his feet must look their glamorous best.
5th January 2005:
What’s Troubling Twinkles?
I’m worried about Twinkles. He’s barely spoken a word since I picked him up from the shop this evening. At first I thought he was in a strop with me because I was almost fifteen minutes late. I got held up in traffic and he has absolutely no patience. He hates waiting around, especially when it’s cold and damp like today. He claims it makes the feathers in his boa go frizzy. He sat silently through dinner, poking his pasta around his plate until it congealed and wasn’t worth eating. I demanded to know what was troubling him, to which he replied nothing. I said there was obviously something wrong, because he’d barely spoken two words since we’d got home and he had a face on him like the chief mourner at a funeral. At which point his temper flared. Accusing me of always bloody nagging he swiped his plate of rubberised pasta off the table and then stormed out of the kitchen. He’s upstairs resting now. I deemed bed to be the best place for him if he were feeling inclined to be volatile. I can see that something has upset him, but I’m not prepared to play sitting duck to his temper all evening. I’ve also told him that I’m not prepared to play a round of guess what’s bothering Twinkles and he can have a few hours brooding space if that’s what he needs, but then whether he likes it or not, he’s going to talk about what’s ailing him. He might appear an all out extrovert and heart on his sleeve type, but I know he has a reclusive corner to his personality, a place where he hoards certain things and frets over them. It isn’t good for him, or me. I know he was a bit upset when Lulu’s sprained ankle didn’t turn out to be as bad as first thought, which sounds awful, but let’s face it we all think selfish thoughts sometimes. He didn’t want Lulu permanently maimed, just out of action for a while longer, but it was not to be. As a result his break into showbiz, via the stage at the PP, has thus proven to be a little short lived. Lu had pipped him to the post for the original position as PP chorus girl and now he had cut short his role as understudy and stand in. We’d had the full tears, tantrums, and life is a bitch and so is Lulu, routine. It was aired and over with. This is something quite different.
7th January 2005:
Funeral, What Funeral?
Taking a break from the office I had a saunter through Debenhams on my lunch hour today and noticed that some Elizabeth Arden makeup products were on 50% off. Rummaging somewhat self-consciously through the bargain basket I was lucky to find two of Twinkles favourite Arden products: pure black defining mascara, which he wears during the day as it darkens and emphasises his own lashes without looking too obvious, and black volume building mascara which he uses to make his false lashes look even more lush. No matter whom you live with, if you really love them you have to show an interest in what interests them, otherwise you end up living with only ‘half’ a person and that’s not good for either partner. You have to appreciate and love the whole person, even the bits that might initially make you uncomfortable because they’re outside your personal sphere of known experiences. No one said relationships had to be easy. In Twinkles’ case it means I have to keep in touch with his feminine aspect and also the things that go with it. I bought two of each type of mascara, at half price they weren’t to be missed. He gets through it by the gallon and he doesn’t like the cheap stuff. Sadly, none of the lipsticks were in shades he liked, though I did buy some cheek colour that had a little bit of sparkle in it. Twinks likes a little bit of sparkle.
The two girls behind the counter irritated me. For a start, they could have challenged a once a year Halloween drag queen to a tacky makeup contest, and won. They stood rudely whispering and giggling the whole time I was looking through the basket and when I paid for the stuff one of them gave me a smug smile and said, ‘I’m sure your wife will love those.’ I smiled politely back and said, thank you, I’m sure he will and then I asked if the store stocked WoMan sheer toe to waist nylons in sizes to fit men over six feet tall, as he’d laddered his last pair and was planning to go out this evening in a mini skirt. Twinkles is actually a rather petite five foot seven, so he doesn’t really have that much of a problem getting stockings and tights to fit him, but the exaggeration was worth it to see the look on her face. The day that Debenhams openly sell tights, stockings and lingerie for the transgender community is the day I’ll know that equality has finally arrived.
I presented Twinkles with the makeup as soon as I picked him up from work. Usually he adores getting presents especially unexpected presents, but there was no elaborate shriek of pleasure when he opened the bag and looked inside. He smiled his thanks and leaned across to kiss me, but then sat quietly gazing out of the car window all the way home.
News of his father’s death seems to have sucked all the sparkle and colour out of him. The way he’d found out was horrible. When he told me what had happened I was so angry. Some friend of the Lane family had taken it upon themselves to mount a moral crusade. Going into Twinkles’ place of work she had loudly berated him for not having had the decency to attend the funeral of the father he’d apparently helped to put in an early grave with his depraved lifestyle. Seeing as his family didn’t have the decency to inform him that his father was ill, let alone that he’d died, it was a bit hard to take.
I asked why he hadn’t called me and why he hadn’t asked to leave work early in the circumstances and he shrugged and said because the circumstances didn’t warrant that kind of respect. Since then he’s said very little about the subject. In fact he’s said very little about anything. Part of me wants to sit him down and demand that he talk to me about his feelings, but I’m not sure that’s the approach needed just now. He’s undoubtedly upset, but I’m not certain what form it takes, or exactly what it’s composed of. I suspect that Twinkles himself is also uncertain about it and needs time to evaluate what must be a hodgepodge of conflicting emotions.
8th January 2005:
Cathartic Street Theatre
Even before I opened my eyes this morning I intuitively sensed that something wasn’t quite right. For a start Twinkles was up without any coercion from me, which in itself was disquieting. I could hear him moving around. Even more disquieting was the fact that I couldn’t bring my right arm forward, mainly because it appeared to be tied to the bedpost. I opened my eyes to find him standing in front of the wardrobe mirror, fully dressed. I re-closed my eyes, held them shut for a few seconds and then reopened them, but he was still standing in front of the wardrobe mirror fully dressed and I mean FULLY DRESSED. Furthermore I was still cuffed to the bedpost with one of the leather and chain restraints that we use to spice up our sex life from time to time; only it isn’t usually me wearing them.
I politely demanded to know what the fuck was going on, a request that was met with silence as he concentrated on getting his lipstick right. Incidentally, I have to report that he looked amazing; sort of gothic Vivienne Westwood meets Phantom Of The Opera. He was wearing a scarlet and black dress, one that mum had helped him make for the PP’s Hallow-Queen Ball last year. It was straight and short at the front, revealing black lacy stocking tops and red frilly suspenders, while cascading in tiers of ruffles to his ankles at the back. It was pulled in tight at the waist with laces and cut low on the breast, revealing a very convincing cleavage, he uses a combination of silicone push-ups inside his bra and clever makeup to create the illusion, and he does it very well. He was also wearing a gothic style wig of tumbling black curls and his makeup was incredible. He’d painted a reddish bronze mask around his eyes and stuck glitter and jewels around its edges, which gave the effect of one of those Venetian ball masks. He must have been up for hours.
I spoke to him calmly, even though I felt far from calm, having a very sudden sick suspicion about what his intentions were. I told him he looked wonderful, but he really couldn’t turn up for work dressed so flamboyantly. Capping his lipstick he turned from the mirror and bluntly told me he wasn’t going to work and not to fret, Tarn darling, he’d already let Don, his boss, know. He then confirmed my suspicions. He was going to pay his respects to his dear bereaved family. Very sorry though he was to have taken such drastic action he wasn’t going to un-cuff me, because I’d stop him and he didn’t want to be stopped.
I don’t often call him by his real name and he knows when I do we’re in serious territory. I told Jonathan he was not to leave the house and he was to un-cuff my wrist immediately or there would be repercussions. He stood for a few moments, as if deliberating then shook his head, said ta-ta and walked out of the room. Fury surged through me, not so much at what he’d done to me, but at the circumstances that had triggered it. I was scared for him. He was in no state for a confrontation with his acidic mother and sisters, or more to the point, with that vicious old bastard, his grandfather. The man would verbally crucify him. Quickly swinging my legs out of bed I stood up. Bracing one bare foot against the headboard I grabbed the chain connecting me to it and pulled with all my might. The restraint didn’t give, but with a splintering of wood the bedpost did.
We must have looked like a scene from Little Britain. There was he in his fancy get up and spiky heels, racing down the garden path towards the car parked on the street. I was in hot pursuit, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and handcuffed to a lump of wood. I grabbed his wrist to stop him opening the car door and he went for me, viciously lashing at me with his handbag. It was one of those heavily beaded affairs and it was like being battered with a medieval mace. I finally got under his defences and heaved him over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift holding his ankles to stop his furiously kicking heels from taking my eye out. They can be lethal weapons can stilettos. I carried him back to the house before his screeches alerted the neighbours that street theatre was taking place and resulted in an audience.
Slamming the front door behind us I pulled off his shoes and hurled them down the hall out of harms way before setting him back on his feet. He had another go at me with his feminine flail. Anchoring him firmly against my side with my left arm I wrestled the handbag from him, tipping the contents onto the hall table and rummaging around until I found the key to the cuff. He made a break for it as I released myself from the remains of the bedpost. I caught him before he could open the front door again, hustling him, kicking and screeching, into the sitting room. Dragging off his wig, because its hard to cuddle someone with really big hair, I sat on the couch and pulled him onto my lap holding him hard against me to try and stop him lashing out. He was hysterical, yelling and swearing, trying to twist loose. He managed to free a hand and rake his fingernails down my face breaking the skin. It stung like hell and my eyes watered harder still as he then tried to separate my hair from my scalp.
Enough was enough. I had to act. Swiftly turning him over my lap I flipped up his dress pulled down his knickers and began smacking his bottom hard. He struggled, trying to reach a hand behind to block mine while shrieking a torrent of abuse. I told him he was being spanked for disobeying my order not to leave the house, for trying to drive when he was legally banned from driving (now there’s a tale and a half) and also for scratching me and pulling my hair. I also made clear that if he ever bloody well handcuffed me to anything without my permission again, he’d be one very sorry man, at which point he burst into a storm of tears. I immediately turned him right side up and held him. The spanking was cathartic, a much needed gateway to his grief. He clung to me sobbing out the mixture of emotions that were tumbling around inside him; sorrow tinged with bitterness for his father and hurt, confusion and anger at the way his family had treated him. Once he’d calmed down I helped him to disrobe and clean off his war paint and then we went back to bed for a while so I could comfort him properly.
9th January 2005:
Stardust Twinkles Is Dead
I think we’ll have to have a new headboard for the bed. I tried fixing it back together with wood glue, but it doesn’t look very attractive and it certainly won’t stand up to being banged against during the throes of passion. I suppose I ought to be grateful that he didn’t decide to secure me by both wrists and both ankles and stick a ball gag in my mouth. I’d still be there while he languished in prison or in a psychiatric unit awaiting assessment for harassment and driving under the influence of heavy makeup while banned.
I didn’t let him out of my sight yesterday. I also unplugged the phone, partly to stop him calling his mother and partly to stop all the calls I knew would come asking why Twinkles had been missing from the Pink Parrot on Friday night. Friday is a big night, it’s the start of the drag weekend and Twinkles never misses, not if he can help it. He’d just been too upset this time.
We talked things over. He said he hadn’t told me what he was planning to do because he knew I’d forbid it. I’d give all the right reasons as to why it was a shit idea, and he didn’t want the right reasons and besides, he knew them anyway. All he’d wanted to do was to hit back at his family in a way guaranteed to cause them maximum upset and embarrassment-by confronting them as the thing they despised so much. He’d wanted to try and force them to acknowledge him. My heart ached for him. I was at a loss as how best to help him. I could telephone his mother and ask for details about what had happened to his father, but I knew she’d hang up the moment I said who I was. Besides, I had no real desire to talk to a woman who could disown her son so completely, nor had I any desire to speak with her father, the family patriarch who had imposed his savage view of how the world should be upon them all. I’d had one confrontation with him and frankly it was enough. The man repelled me. Instead, while Twinkles was having a nap, I phoned Lulu and asked if he’d do me a favour by going to the library and going through the back copies of the local district newspapers to see if a notice of death had been posted for a Richard Lane.
Lu came up trumps. Twinkles’ father had died the weekend before Christmas after a short illness. The notice stated that he’d left a wife and two daughters, but no mention was made of a son. I grew hot with anger at this cruel snub. It was something I’d have to try and keep from him. He’d been hurt enough. The funeral had taken place on the 21st December, a church service followed by burial. That was something anyway. We could find the grave and at least then Twinkles could pay his respects. Rituals are important, no matter what faith you claim or don’t claim.
We spent the remainder of Saturday quietly cuddled in front of the television watching old videos, including ‘Priscilla Queen Of The Desert,’ and ‘To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.’ At the appropriate moment in the latter film I took Twinks hand and quoted his favourite line to him just as Carol Ann said it to Vida Boheme, ‘I don’t think of you as a man and I don’t think of you as a woman. I think of you as an angel.’ Twinkles once read an elaborate and lavish review of the film that described the leads, three drag queens, as celestial messengers who transcend individual differences in a quest for a shared humanity. It was a notion he adored and took on board wholesale. Personally I thought it was something of a grandiose concept for a comedy film featuring Wesley Snipes and Patrick Swayze in drag, not that I said so of course. He wondered if sending his grandfather and mother copies of the films might change the way they viewed him. I said that sadly, some people would never be able to see beyond their own rigid ideas of acceptable normality. He set off crying again, saying that the only ideas of normality his mother had ever had were the ones imposed on her by her vile father. Why hadn’t that old bastard been the one to die? There are some questions that just can’t be answered.
We went to the cemetery this morning. It took a while, but we did manage to locate the grave. There’s no headstone as yet, just the simple plot marker cross bearing a name and dates. Most of the tributes on the grave were withered and worn ragged by winter wind and rain. Twinkles gathered them up and binned them before placing the spray of fresh flowers he’d bought on top of the raw burial mound. He then knelt down, heedless of the damp earth. He knelt for a long time, not moving, not speaking and not crying. The rain came, light at first, then heavier, pattering musically against the cellophane wrapped flowers and still he knelt with bowed head. I was soaked to the skin and frozen so I had no doubt that he was. I decided that he’d had enough and gently told him it was time to go, and that’s when he started to cry. It was awful. He said it was bad enough his father dying without ever saying he was proud of him, but what hurt most was knowing that even if he’d lived, he would never have said it anyway. He hadn’t been proud of him. He had been ashamed, embarrassed and disgusted to have a son like him. I almost cried then, not because I believed what he was saying was true, but simply because Twinkles thought it was and seeing him hurting so much was unbearable.
When we got home I insisted that we got out of our wet clothes and into a hot shower. As I washed his hair and body he started to cry again and I wrapped my arms about him holding him, as the hot water cascaded over us. Afterwards, I left him in bed while I went down to the kitchen to make us some tea. By the time I returned he was no longer in bed, but it wasn’t empty. It was piled high with all his dresses, shoes, and lingerie, everything in fact that transformed him from Jonathan Lane into Stardust Twinkles. I asked what he was doing and he said he was having a clean out and getting rid of the trash from his life. Stardust Twinkles was dead. From now on he was plain Jonathan Lane.
January 10th 2005:
Real Homo’s Don’t Wear Frocks
I didn’t sleep much last night. Twinkles lay snoring by my side, not so much asleep as borderline unconscious. He’d downed the best part of a bottle of Vodka under the guise of drinking orange juice, a fact I only cottoned onto when he tried to get up to go to the toilet and promptly keeled over, taking the kitchen chair he’d been sitting on with him. I would have swatted him if I thought he could feel it, but he was so drunk I doubt he’d have felt me extract his teeth never mind swat his backside. After helping him up to the bathroom and hearing him barf a symphony of regret into the loo I put him to bed. At three a.m. conceding that sleep had evaded me I got up and went downstairs. I intended to make a cup of tea, but ended up sitting on the couch nursing a generous shot of Glenomrangie while sorting through the thoughts crowding my mind, as you do at that hour of the morning.
I had pleaded with him to put everything back in the wardrobe saying that now wasn’t the time to be making sweeping decisions about anything, let alone about something as fundamental as self-identity. He refused to listen to me, carrying on with the task of emptying his closet and shoving clothes and accessories into plastic bags. Afterwards he shut himself in the kitchen saying he was going to put in an hours work on the gemstone diploma he’s studying for. I kept looking in on him to make sure he was alright, fondly believing that the orange juice he was drinking was just, well, orange juice.
Whatever way you look at it, Twinkles or Jonathan, and I, are not quite your average householders. We’re a homosexual couple, one half of whom is a cross-dresser, which in itself classifies us as a subgroup within a subgroup and as such means we’ve frequently found ourselves facing hostility not just from heterosexual sources, but from other homosexuals who along with their straight brethren view any transgressions in gender-appropriate behaviour and image as deviant…so much for gay solidarity. Add to that the fact our relationship also incorporates consensual discipline elements, and what you have is a couple who belong to a subgroup within a subgroup within a subgroup. I also quite like to nibble Twinkles’ toes from time to time, which probably classifies us a subgroup too far. Not that I care. I’ve got a toe fetish, so what. I’d never nibble anyone’s toes without their consent, not that I’d want to nibble anyone else’s toes anyway. He has nice toes and attractive feet. He looks after them, not like some men I’ve slept with in the past who had rasps for feet and fungus farms for toes. It’s very un-sexy to be awoken on a morning by someone grating the hair and skin off your lower limbs with the hard skin on their feet.
I don’t give a dam about not being average, whatever average means. I’m not even certain that average really exists except possibly in the minds of Statisticians. Scratch the surface of your average straight businessman and chances are you’ll find a bloke who likes to encase his prick in ladies knickers, so much for average. Basically, I’m a man with an imposed funny name who loves another man who just happens to have an alter ego called Stardust Twinkles. I don’t and I won’t pretend to fully understand the impetus that drives him to want to wear feminine attire, same as I don’t understand the impetus that drives an average businessman to want to wear ladies underwear under his suit, or wear his wife’s clothing when she’s out at the shops.
How many of us can honestly say we understand the forces that drive us? We are who we are. Only, as I sat there in the early hours sipping whisky, I realised that Jonathan Lane was trying to kill off a part of who he was, not because he really wanted to but because he felt he had to. Maybe a part of me ought to have been relieved. It isn’t always comfortable or easy being partner to a transvestite, not least because of the amount of wardrobe space they demand, but I wasn’t relieved. The persona of Stardust Twinkles was an aspect of the person I love in their entirety and she now lay shrouded in plastic bags stacked along the landing. It was a death I was not prepared to accept. Setting my drink aside I went back upstairs and began to unpack the bags, re-hanging the dresses, jackets etc and returning them to the wardrobe.
11th January 2005:
Multi-Facets
Twinkles’ boss gave him a few days compassionate leave, which was just as well because not surprisingly Twinkles was not at his best when he woke up on Monday morning. He spent some long moments begging God to allow him to die before staggering to the bathroom and noisily heaving his guts up into the toilet bowl. He then staggered back to bed where he laid whimpering pitiably and exhorting God to allow him to live, that’s my boy…contrary. Of course it was my entire fault. I should have stopped him. What kind of incompetent Top (another term for Dominant, he tends to alternate between the two depending on mood) let his partner drink that much? I gave him a couple of painkillers, made him drink several large glasses of water and told him we’d apportion blame when he was feeling better. I called my office and asked my secretary to fax me some stuff over so that I could work from home. I didn’t want to leave Twinkles alone all day not in the unsettled mood he was in.