Swan Songs Page 6

  The silence that fell after the announcement is hard to describe. All those who knew Steven in any capacity of course knew that he was gravely ill, but knowing did nothing to lessen the sense of shock at news of his death. From being a community comprised of friends and acquaintances, we went to being a roomful of individuals mindful of our own mortality. No one in the gay community can afford to be complacent about HIV. What happened to Steven could just as easily have happened to any one of us.

  My solitude was broken by the touch of a hand, a hand. I grasped it, pulling Twinkles into my arms, holding him tight as we shared our grief for the loss of a good friend, a friend we’d seen a few days previously never imagining it would be for the last time. Surrounded by flowers, cards, balloons and soft toys he had looked small and frail lying in the hospital bed, but still managed to smile and tease and ask for details of our lives. That was Steven, always interested in other people, a kind man and a good friend who will be much missed. Brian left the PP soon after the announcement. Steven’s parents and sister are staying with him for a few days; he always got on well with Steven’s family.

  I’m not sure that I’ve really taken the news onboard yet. It feels unreal, like someone could undo it if they really wanted to.

  27th January 2005:

  Remembrance

  As yet there’s been no news from the police, and thankfully no more letters or bricks through the window. Perhaps whoever is responsible has got it out of their system. We can but hope and anyway in light of other matters it hardly seems that big a deal.

  Steven’s funeral took place this afternoon. At his request it was a very small, very private affair. He wished to have no mourners other than Brian, his parents, his sister and a close cousin from childhood days…the people who had known him longest and loved him best. He didn’t want to think of friends weeping for him after his death. He wanted to recall us the way he loved seeing us, enjoying life and having fun and he wanted us to remember him the same way. As such there was to be a special party at the Pink Parrot in honour of his memory and in celebration of his life, to take place this coming Saturday. Everyone was invited, no long faces, no sombre dress and no tears. He requested that donations be made to AIDS charities in lieu of funeral flowers.

  I’m worried about Twinkles. He isn’t eating or sleeping well and he’s very quiet. Steven’s death coming so soon after the death of his father has really shaken him. These are his first encounters with death. He says he’s fine and I’m to stop fussing like an old hen and had he told me how much he loves me lately? I said yes and he wasn’t to be getting any strange ideas about me dying and leaving him. Had I told him how much I love him lately and he said yes, but could I tell him again, just to be on the safe side. So I did, with actions as well as words.

  29th January 2005:

  Round-Robin

  Almost the end of 2005’s first month and I have to say that so far, it’s not been the best of years.

  On the evening after Steven’s funeral we received a round-robin email that he had prepared to be distributed to close friends in the event of his death. It was incredibly moving, as was the postscript by Brian and I thought Twinkles would cry when he read them. I certainly did, floodgates could not have kept my tears back, but Twinks didn’t cry. He comforted me as I wept, but he remained unusually composed. It unnerved me and I kept a close eye on him all evening, too close. I ended up getting on his nerves by following him from room to room asking if he were okay, did he need a cup of tea or anything. He told me in no uncertain terms that if he’d wanted a frigging parrot he would have purchased one and could I get off his shoulder please, as he’d really rather prefer to piss in private. I reprimanded him for his choice of words and then apologised for fussing explaining that I was just worried about him and I was there if he needed to talk. He kissed me and apologised for being a ratbag saying he loved that I cared enough to drive him up the wall and then he threw me out of the bathroom.

  In the event my fussing seemed vindicated. Twinkles’ manager, Don, called my office yesterday with some unsettling news. Twinks had rowed with a customer over a jewellery repair that she wasn’t happy with, consequently reducing her to tears with his remarks, before storming out of the shop. Don was concerned and wanted to know if anything had happened to contribute to him behaving in such an unusual manner. He’s usually charm itself where customers are concerned. I was at a loss. He had seemed fine when I dropped him off at work. I immediately called his mobile, only to find it was switched off. I could have skinned him alive for that alone. I called the house phone, but spoke only to the answer machine, getting no response when I left a message telling him to pick up immediately if he was there. I headed home anyway.

  The police car parked in the road outside our house did nothing to allay my anxieties. My imagination began weaving fantasies that would have been suitable for inclusion in a Stephen King horror story. Heart hammering I raced towards the house, almost colliding with the policeman emerging from the garden gate. It turned out that he’d just given Twinkles an update on their enquiries. There was no evidence to suggest that his family had anything to do with the letters, dog poo and brick attack. However, one of his sisters had admitted to removing the spray of flowers from the grave and dumping them on the doorstep. Twinkles was at last in receipt of a detail I had wanted to keep from him. I thanked the policeman and headed indoors. Twinkles was not taking the news well, not if the sounds emanating from the vicinity of the kitchen were anything to go by. I hurried in their direction.

  By the time I reached the kitchen he was in full dramatic flow and the floor was already littered with remnants of assorted crockery. The moment he clocked me he snatched up the Clarice Cliff teapot he’d bought me for Christmas. I told him to put it down and we’d talk about why he was so angry and upset. He complied, but not in a way I approved of. I ducked in the nick of time. It struck the doorframe, above my head showering me with tea dregs and expensive shards of pottery. He then screeched that the teapot had cost him a hundred and fifty fucking quid and he hadn’t even paid for it yet and why hadn’t I had the sense to catch it, what kind of stupid man didn’t at least try to catch an expensive, unpaid for fucking teapot?

  I could appreciate his distress, but I definitely did not appreciate having a heavy teapot hurled straight at my head, nor did I appreciate being abused for not catching it. I felt he needed to be made aware of my lack of appreciation. By the time I’d finished expressing the lack thereof, he was expressing his heartfelt regrets at not putting the teapot down in a more conventional manner.

  I sent him to bed immediately afterwards, which probably sounds very harsh in the circumstances. The thing is, he’d completely lost any ability to control himself. In effect his action was a demand for me to take control of both him and the situation before it escalated still further. I did what was required and desired. There had been a look on his face just after the teapot left his hand, a look of sick horror and fear at the possible repercussions of his action, and by that I don’t mean me disciplining him for it. I mean realisation that if the teapot struck me it would badly injure me. The spanking I gave him served two purposes. It was punishment for his destructive temper and it absolved him of guilt about it. The sending to bed wasn’t me treating him like a child either, or thrusting him away in disgust, nor was it about punishing him further by sending him into solitude when he was clearly upset and in need of comfort. Our bed is a warm and loving place, the place we have sex, talk, cuddle, kiss, eat crisps, at least he does, despite me telling him not to. It’s where we watch television and read. In its way it’s the nucleus of our life together. Sending him there is a reaffirmation of my love for him and Twinkles likes and needs it. It’s the best and most caring thing I can do for him after an emotional punishment.

  He once told me that when I had first threatened to send him to bed he experienced a feeling that was hard to explain, something akin to a short orgasm followed by long tedium, the authoritative sound of t
he words being more thrilling than their reality. They made him cross and at the same time made him feel protected. Discipline needs are complex and a lot of people assume that discipline is all about punishing, but it isn’t. It’s also about nurturing.

  Thankfully, the mess in the kitchen looked worse than it actually was, a little broken pottery goes a long way. I was upset about the teapot, not that I had liked the thing to be truthful, but because I knew he did and I also knew how guilty he would feel about breaking something that he had gifted to me, another good reason for walloping his backside. Better a prescribed resolution than days of unhappy guilty feelings. Maybe we could claim on the insurance, citing the teapot as a victim of negative anger, which begs the question, isn’t anger always negative? I don’t think so. I think anger is a healthy, positive emotion that is frequently misquoted. When someone says they’re angry, they often mean they’re sad, frightened, hurt, unhappy, they just don’t know how to express those emotions or if its justifiable to express them, so they opt for anger and it then becomes a destructive negative force.

  Twinkles told me he lost his temper with the customer because she had bitterly complained that her diamond ring still had a rough claw and was catching on things, as if it were a tragedy. He had angrily told her that if a rough claw on a lump of carbon was all she had to worry about in life, she should count herself dam lucky. There were people lying six foot under who would think a rough claw a reason to rejoice in being able to feel it. Then he was angry to discover that his sister hated him enough to remove his tribute from his father’s grave. He was angry with me for not telling him about it in the first place and said sometimes I babied him appallingly. Most of all, he was angry with Steven. Not because he’d died, but because he’d denied his friends the opportunity to pay their formal respects and to mourn him properly. That’s when I understood where his anger was really coming from. It was renewed grief at being excluded from his father’s funeral. It was grief and frustration at being denied the opportunity to say goodbye, to make peace in a ritualistic manner. He just hadn’t known how to say so, or even if he had the right to say so and he’d tried to suppress his feelings because they felt selfish and petty. In the end they’d come out as anger. I’ve asked him to think about making an appointment with the resident counsellor at our doctor’s surgery. She might be able to help him with all the emotions he’s struggling with in a more detached manner than I can.

  Twinkles compounded the awfulness of the day by demanding that I read to him as he lay in bed, not that I objected to reading to him as such, but come on, there are limits…The Stud by Jackie Collins being one of them. I begged him to reconsider, to choose another book, but he gave me the big doe eyes, and with a sigh I capitulated hoping that he’d fall asleep. He didn’t, the rotten little sod made me read half the damn book. It was hell.

  I met Twinks for lunch today. Don, his boss, who is a good sort, accepted his explanation and apology for yesterday’s events asking only that Twinks put things right with the lady customer in question. Lunch was nice, subdued but nice. We went to a little place by the river and managed to get a window seat. The river was winter beautiful and very masculine, fluid grey metal channelling between dun banks powdered with frost.

  Well, I suppose I’ve spent enough time playing Pepys for today. I’d better make a move, as I’ve got things to do and it won’t be long before I have to set off to pick Twinkles up from work. It’s Steven’s party this evening. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it as such.

  30th January 2005:

  Steven’s Party

  A funeral is or should be a celebration of a person’s life, no matter how short that life might have been. It’s meant to be a thanksgiving for having known them and loved them and in that respect last night’s party for Steven was every bit as meaningful as a funeral, but without the heavy religious sombreness. The PP looked fantastic. There were huge blown up photographs of Steven everywhere. Photos of him as a boy with his family, photos of him laughing, personal photos of him with Brian and ones of him at various PP events. They were photos of a good-looking man before AIDS took its toll on him. On the surface it was a happy evening. Everyone had made an effort to look special and sound bright, but even so there was an undercurrent of sorrow, which occasionally broke through resulting in the tears that Steven had forbidden to be shed on his behalf…sometimes tears must have precedence over all else, they’re necessary and I think Stevie might actually have rather liked and been touched by the rivers that flowed for him. We recalled his uncoordinated but enthusiastic dancing and his wicked sense of humour and the time he wound up every drag queen in the PP by turning up as a convincing new Gal on the block, Tequila Mockingbird, fooling everyone and causing jealous speculation as to the identity of the glamorous upstart newcomer.

  Brian was immaculately suited and elegantly turned out as he always is, but while the smile on his face was in the here and now, the look in his eyes was back in a time when Steven was still alive. My heart ached for him.

  The highlight of the evening was so typically Steven and his sense of humour. There were party bags for everyone to take home. Barbie bags for the tranny crowd and Fireman Sam bags for the butch boys from the leather bar downstairs. They included chocolate body paint, a brush to apply it, Hershey’s chocolate kisses, and lube, and of course condoms along with a red AIDS ribbon. We pinned on the ribbons and stood in silence for some moments in respect, love and remembrance of our lovely Steven and all of those whose lives have been so cruelly cut short by the worldwide human tragedy of AIDS.

  1st February 2005:

  Sir Tarn

  Twinkles shook me awake at five-thirty this morning. He’d gone to answer the call of nature and found something sinister lurking in the bathroom, could I investigate?

  We both stared at it thoughtfully, was it…wasn’t it?

  He, standing some distance behind me, said I ought to poke it, because, as a Top, I was supposed to be brave and fearless. I asked him where he’d acquired that myth from and he said from reading stories on the Internet. All the Tops he read about were built like stone fortresses, were scared of nothing and yet were deeply nurturing. The Internet has a lot to answer for in my opinion. It allows certain sets of people to create myths and other sets to take them up and believe in them to the letter. Taking a deep breath I advanced and heroically poked the sinister object. It didn’t move, so I poked it again, then grinned with relief. There was no doubt this time. The hairy object on the bar of soap was definitely one of Twinks’ false eyelashes. Playfully swatting him back to bed I told him that if he didn’t stop leaving the damn things lying around I was going to ban him from wearing them.

  Seeing as we were awake we made the most of it and enjoyed some early morning canoodling. I asked if I fitted the profile of the fictional Tops he read about online, and he said no, because they were all muscled god-like hunks of few words, whereas as I was a slightly paunchy ordinary looking man who constantly nagged, but I had a great arse which he loved getting his hands on. I said that according to the fiction he read wasn’t he, as brat, bottom or sub to my Top or Dom, supposed to humbly call me sir and stand up when I walked into a room? When he’d finished laughing he said that if I wanted someone to call me sir I’d have to become a teacher or something, because he wasn’t going to do it. I hugged him and told him I’d keep him anyway. Actually, the very thought of being called sir by someone I love leaves me cold. I don’t get off on that kind of obvious subservience, it grates on me, but each to their own as the saying goes. At the optimum moment in our canoodling, the little toad suddenly yelled Oooh, sir, sir, I think you’re getting there, sir, give it to me, sir, treat me rough, sir, abuse me horribly, thank you, sir! It put me off my stroke and we both ended up in a laughing heap on the bed.

  Our happy bubble suffered something of a pinprick when we went downstairs for breakfast and caught sight of a familiar type written envelope hunching malevolently on the doormat. Picking it up I thrust it unopene
d into the drawer with the others, telling Twinkles that it was to stay unopened until this evening. We had a day’s work to get through and we didn’t need whatever nastiness it contained preying on our minds. We’d deal with it later. His lovely brown eyes took on a mutinous cast and he said he wanted to read it there and then. I firmly told him that if he so much as opened the drawer, never mind the envelope, I would show him just how Toppish I could be and he wouldn’t enjoy it one little bit. ‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered sarcastically, wrapping his kimono more tightly about himself and tottering towards the kitchen in his pink mules.

  2nd February 2005:

  Ordinary People

  Those who live in sin and die without repenting of that sin shall be cast into the fires of eternal damnation. Homosexuality is an affront to the Lord…So said the epistle of whatever small-minded bigot had sent it. I thrust it back into the drawer in disgust. Twinkles rolled his eyes and made pithy comments about people with nothing better to do than persecute others. It was my turn to wash up after dinner and afterwards I walked into the sitting room to find him rearranging the furniture. He often does that when he’s worried about something, as if moving stuff around will make whatever is bothering him disappear. In this case I guessed the anonymous letter. The trouble is, he never likes the way the room looks after all the rearranging and inevitably loses his temper because it hasn’t worked out according to the plan in his head. Firmly putting the couch back in its original location I sat on it and pulled him onto my lap demanding he tell me what was on his mind. He asked if I thought we were bad people and whether the way we lived and loved really was intrinsically wrong and we would go to hell as a result? And what about poor Steven, was he in hell, after all he hadn’t repented before he died? I said that in my opinion Steven had had no need to repent. He’d done nothing terrible, so what could he repent of…making mistakes, as we all do, being in love, being a nice, kind, generous person, being in fact basically ordinary? I told Twinkles what I’ve told him many times before, that I believe that God, if there be one, will judge his creation by their actions, and not by their gender preferences. Love, respect and honour are love, respect and honour whether they occur between a man and a woman, or between same sex partners, all that matters is that you don’t deliberately injure and harm other people during your journey through life. To my mind it’s people like Twinkles’ grandfather, and our sweet correspondent who should repent for their vicious bigotry and their lack of tolerance and kindness. They are the ones who cause suffering and misery.