Something different in the M/M Genre
Written in real time Tarn returns with more tales about life and love with the man who puts the star in Stardust, the drama in queen, the rat in ratatouille and the light in Tarn’s eyes, his beloved Twinkles.
As 2006 draws to a close Tarn and Twinks’ tormentor, the hateful writer of poison pen letters ups the ante and resorts to more physical means of persecution. It heralds the start of an anxious and unsettled phase in their lives, one that looks set to drive them apart.
Will they get through it or will they become just another statistic in the history of broken relationships? Only time and Tarn will tell.
Happy New Year! Twelve months lie ahead to be filled with life, love and who knows what else. It goes without saying that there’ll be dramas and some tears and fears along the route, but hopefully nothing we can’t handle.
We had a bit of a do at our house last night, and by ‘do’ I mean a do in the party sense rather than a do in the domestic drama sense, which makes a change I grant you. It wasn't planned as such. It came about as a result of the Pink Parrot being evacuated because of a big fire at a nearby Tapas Bar. The flames were fanned by high winds and the fire brigade insisted all buildings in the vicinity were cleared. The area was cordoned off and all would be revellers were advised to go home or find safer places to see in the New Year.
Twinkles was determined to party. No one was raining on his NY parade thank you very much. Before I knew it he had thrown out an open invitation. Our humble abode was packed wall to wall with friends and an eclectic array of acquaintances from the PP's hallowed halls. There were also a few faces I’d never clapped eyes on before. I suspect they were refugees from the flaming bar who had spotted our party and tagged onto the end of it.
Predictably our illustrious neighbour Ray Brownlow called round to complain about the noise. He left in a hurry when Bear Daddy, who was dressed in a black leather vest, leather briefs and chaps, told him if he didn't clear off and stay cleared off he'd put a collar and lead on him and make him his bitch. Never have I seen a man move so fast down a garden path.
I awoke this morning with the hangover from hell. Unlike much of the population my hangover was external to my body and blaming me for its misery in between blessing the toilet with its stomach contents. I am of course referring to my beloved little regent, the self-declared Miss New Year 2007, licensed to overdress and thrill for twelve whole months.
I had little sympathy for 007. Him feeling like hell was his own fault, not mine. I didn't force him to drink the entire nation’s combined quota of drink units in one evening. In fact I'd told him he’d had enough and he was to stop boozing after he fell off his high heels into the Christmas tree thus fusing the fairy lights. I warned him last night before he fell into bed that in due course we'd be discussing the 'fruit' punch he'd claimed to be drinking thereafter. Little fibber.
I gave him painkillers, something to settle his stomach and lashings of water. I then tucked him back into bed to sleep it off, giving him Lulu, whom I retrieved from under the dining room table, for hangover cuddles and company. Leaving them snoring like a pair of road drills I made a large pot of tea, handing out mugs of the beverage to the party revelling remnants who were cluttering up the couch and chairs in the living room. They were the usual suspects, Big Mary, Natalie, Rick and Empress Gloria.
There was also someone called Diamond, who to be honest looked to be a bit of a rough hewn stone in the cruel light of day. Her siren red lipstick and heavy blue eye shadow had somehow leaked and bled together, creating a mess on her face resembling road kill. I pitied Rick when he woke up and spied the countenance belonging to the fake bosom he'd lost consciousness in.
Mum, bless her, was slightly the worse for wear, but gave me a hand with the grim task of the post party clean up. Prissy like Twinkles and Lulu was completely indisposed. He lay in the guest room groaning quietly and wishing to die until mum took him home.
I’ll leave aside the fresh born year and return to the old one for a few moments to tell the tale of Christmas just past. It proved something of a mixed event for us.
On Christmas Eve we went to the PP where the Christmas spirit cut across all rivalry and a jolly good time was had by one and all. There were no fights, no tantrums, no hair pulling. Natalie was having a day off and had sent Kevin in her place. He enjoyed being the male in demand and took to the dance floor with a bevy of assorted beauties, including Twinks who told Kevin he was cute and ought to leave that cow Natalie at home more often. I was suitably jealous when Twinks flirted with him. I had to be. Twinks insisted.
Christmas Day started well. Twinks and I made long leisurely love. We had a pleasant breakfast and opened some gifts. We then went over to my mother's for Christmas Dinner and more giving and opening of gifts. There was a hiccup involving a beige rage incident. It went much as follows:
A Christmas Melodrama
Starring Stardust Twinkles and Joan Swan
Co-starring a matching scarf and gloves
S.T. "Beige! Beige! Frigging beige! Do I look like a beige kind of person? I do not wear beige. I would not be seen frigging dead in frigging beige, particularly frigging beige chenille! Beige chenille is what old age pensioners wear, pensioners with no taste. Beige! I ask you. BEIGE! It's an insult, that's what it is, an insult. What are you trying to say, I look like an old age pensioner? I mean how long have you known me, Joan, how long and have you ever seen me in beige? I don't frigging think so!"
J.S. "Calm down! I didn’t get you anything beige. I know what a vain little Barbie doll you are. I got you a designer scarf in green and gold angora decorated with glittery multicoloured pom-poms. The beige scarf and gloves were for our Debs. Prissy (turns to glare at poor Prissy who tried to look innocent) must have got the labels confused when he wrapped them up."
S.T. (giving an outraged scream) "You mean thanks to (rudely points) Dizzy Prissy, a butch truck driving lesbian is parading around in MY designer pompom scarf?"
J.S. “If you flap that bloody beige scarf at me once more I'm going to slap your legs. There's no need to get your silk knickers in a knot. I'll get it back. I can't see our Debs wanting to wear anything with glittery balls."
S.T. "Knowing your Debs she'll hack all the balls off. She’ll emasculate it. I'll end up with an impotent scarf. How could you, Joan, how could you let Prissy wrap up my present? You should have done it yourself. It's your duty. Phone Debs, phone her now and tell her not to harm my scarf."
J.S. “I’ll call her later. Have a bloody drink and calm down.”
Twinks did eventually calm down. Several glasses of wine later he was hugging mum and all was forgiven, even Prissy. My cousin Debs was profoundly relieved to discover the flamboyant scarf she wouldn't be seen dead in, let alone driving a truck in, wasn't hers after all.