&
A Letter From Steven
A supplement to ‘Swan Songs’ the first book in the Stardust Diaries series
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Tarn Swan 2012
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this independent author.
Concerning how Twinkles came out of the closet and why I put him back in it, and also a peep back at how I came out of the closet and stayed out.
When my secretary and good friend Karen announced she and fiancé Paul had finally set a wedding date I was delighted. They’d been courting for long enough. At that point in time I’d been seeing Twinkles for almost two months and we were still at a madly in lust stage of our relationship. As such we selfishly considered socialising with each other to be far more important than socialising with anyone else. As a result we’d more or less cast ourselves adrift from the world and were in danger of developing prison pallor as a result of spending too much time indoors. When not at work we were either under his bedcovers or mine. Plenty of people had heard about Twinkles, but few had met him. When Karen sent me an invitation to the wedding she made a point of writing it out to: Tarn & Guest…aka the mysterious boyfriend you’ve been guarding so jealously and keeping in the closet…bring the boy out and soon because we want to see who’s been putting the sparkle in your eye.
I duly asked Twinkles if he’d do me the honour of accompanying me to the wedding. He said yes and then asked if there were any chance of him being allowed to be a bridesmaid, because he’d always wanted to be a bridesmaid and wear yards of rustling taffeta and a fragrant floral headdress. I regretfully told him that Karen had all the bridesmaids she needed, which disappointed him a bit, well okay, a lot. Being bridesmaid at a straight wedding would have been a large and very fancy feather in the cap of his feminine doppelganger, Miss Stardust Twinkles.
People often ask me how I could have fallen for a man who likes to wear women’s clothes, and doesn’t it mean I’m just a closet heterosexual or something? The truth is I didn’t fall for a man in a frock. I actually fell for a good-looking boy in a suit. I made the acquaintance of Mr Jonathan Lane before I ever knew of the existence of his alter ego, Miss Stardust. He came out to me about being a transvestite early in our relationship. It’s not something you can really keep hidden for long. He said that as soon as he suspected our relationship was going to be something more than a few grunt and groan bed sessions, he felt he had to put me in the picture about this other aspect of himself, even if it meant being rejected, which in his experience it usually did. His philosophy being it was better to be hurt sooner rather than later.
To be perfectly honest, Jonathan wasn’t the type of man I usually went for in the first place, either in appearance or personality. I usually gravitated towards quietly athletic, masculine men. The type who liked to keep fit, but who weren’t obsessed, men who were well toned, but not too muscle bound, blondes usually. I had a thing about blondes back then. Jonathan was, and still is, lightly built with short brown hair and a boyish, fresh-faced complexion. He also has a slightly effeminate tone to his voice, which combined with an overt style of presentation leads most people to immediately assume he’s gay, and of course he is, but that said it’s not always a guarantee. I have a cousin who speaks exactly the same way and in addition walks, or rather prances, like a figged horse, but he’s not gay. In fact he’s begat more kids than a Biblical Patriarch.
There was a fair amount of astonishment in the family when I turned out to be gay instead of him, though as my aunt Helen disparagingly said, what could you expect with a name like Tarn? She blamed my parents. Apparently if they’d named me Dave or Pete or something more obviously masculine then my chances of being gay would have been greatly reduced. The fact that her own daughter, my cousin Debbie, drives a Heavy Goods Vehicle and is more butch than Bruce Willis, is something she refuses to acknowledge. The gay gene is strong in my family.
Debbie herself has never come out of the closet as a lesbian. As she said to me once, there was no closet big enough to conceal her in the first place, so she’d never tried hiding in one. People could draw their own conclusions and take her or leave her just as she was. I like Debs, but to be honest, I doubt anyone could take her, not even Bruce Willis, not without the aid of a small army and several heavy machine guns. She’s a tough lady. Twinkles is terrified of her. He reckons she has so much testosterone raging through her veins she could probably make a fortune as a testosterone donor. He says she could wipe out male infertility just be donating the amount she has in her little finger, not that he’d ever dare say it to her face, not without Bruce Willis and a small army standing protectively in front of him.
As I said, before I digressed, Twinkles was not my usual type at all. In fact he was the antipathy of it, but there was something about him, some innate charm and a sweet vulnerability that captivated me from the moment I walked into his place of work to buy my mother a birthday gift. When he smiled and asked if he could help me, my balls just about drew up to my naval and I got so hard so fast I feared for my zipper. I almost had what Robert Kinsey, the sexual scientist, described as, ‘an explosive discharge of neuromuscular tension,’ an orgasm in other words. He bowled me over.
If you could see him smile you might understand my reaction. He has the most beautiful smile. It can light up a room. It’s sexy and slightly mischievous. It still makes my toes curl with pleasure. I staggered out of that jewellers shop feeling like I’d been hit over the head with a blunt instrument. My mother was consequently showered with gifts, as I attempted to confirm that, first, he was actually gay. Making assumptions is all very well, but more often than not they can be the wrong ones (remember my cousin) Second, if he was indeed as gay as he seemed, I needed to ascertain he was available. He was, and was, and yes, he’d love to go out to dinner with me. I think my mother would have preferred him to play much harder to get. She’d never had so many gifts of jewellery and she was rather enjoying it.
We’d been dating for just short of a month when Jonathan decided it was time to come out of the closet with regard to certain matters. One Friday evening he invited me over to his place for a meal. It was the first time he’d done so and I was pleased. We usually ended up at my house, so it felt like we were moving on a stage. I’d invited him into my private territory and now he was doing the same, it was an exchange of trust.
I arrived at his flat clutching a bottle of his favourite red wine and a box of the continental chocolates I knew he had a weakness for, while wondering whether I had enough condoms in my wallet to get us through a night of unbridled passion. Imagine my surprise therefore when a woman opened the door of Jonathan’s flat, a remarkably glamorous woman with high piled blond hair, wearing a revealing little black evening dress.
She gave me a rather diffident smile, invited me to enter, relieved me of the wine and chocolates and then asked if I’d like a glass of wine from the bottle already open on the table? I thanked her, while thinking she was a tad overdressed for eating pasta at a friend’s house. She wouldn’t have looked amiss sailing down the red carpet at an Oscar’s ceremony. She was beautiful. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a bit miffed that Jonathan hadn’t told me he’d invited a third party to what I’d expected to be a cosy dinner for two.
Putting aside selfish considerations I introduced myself and asked where Jonathan was? There was a brief pause, and then she said:
“It’s me, Tarn darling, I’m Jonathan.” She bobbed a mock little curtsy, “or as I’m known in certain circles, Stardust Twinkles. I thought it was time to make myself known to you in my entirety. What do you think?”
My jaw literally dropped. I was stunned. I honestly hadn’t recognised him. Even his voice was different. I swallowed, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Had I been the fainting type I would have crashed to the ground there and then. There was a prolonged uncomfortable silence, which Jonathan broke first.
“I’m sorry, Tarn. I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me again.” He ran into what I assumed was his bedroom, slamming the door shut.
I flopped down on the couch, thoroughly taken aback. Call me naïve, maybe even plain stupid, but I’d picked up no clues to prepare me for his bombshell, his blond bombshell. I knew he liked fashion, he frequently commented on ladies clothes and accessories, especially the pretty and more glamorous items, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he did so because he liked wearing them. I though he had an interest in design or something. He’s a very artistic man. With hindsight I could see he’d been dropping hints and sprinkling clues. I’d just been blind to them, perhaps wilfully. Of course I knew about cross dressers in all their many variations, but not at first hand. They were part of a particular crowd, but not my crowd.
Forgive me if I go off at a slight tangent here, but sad to say that even in these so called enlightened times there’s a tremendous social prejudice against effeminate gay men, transvestites and transsexuals, and it comes from both the straight and gay communities. I think in part the prejudice, and general lack of respect, stems from feminine phobia. There are straight men who still view femininity as inferior to masculinity, and there are many gay men who view women as beneath their contempt simply because they feel no physical attraction towards them. This prejudiced attitude extends itself to gay men who display what is commonly seen as feminine characteristics.
Anyway, leaving aside social politics, of which I know nothing and returning to personal history, a part of me wanted to get up, walk away, and not get involved in something so completely outside the sphere of my experience. I guess I was one of the prejudiced I’ve just preached about. The situation with Jonathan directly breached my personal comfort zone. I was a regular gay man. I dated other regular gay men, not women, or men dressed as women. It was all too confusing. I wasn’t sure of my ability to handle breasts, and the pair he had stuffed down the front of his frock looked like they might take quite some handling. What if I dropped them or something?
The sound of sobbing penetrated the closed door and I knew it was too late. I was already involved and I couldn’t walk away leaving Jonathan hurting. I got up and went into the bedroom. He’d dragged off his wig and was curled up tightly on the bed crying as if his heart were breaking. I couldn’t bear it.
Lying down beside him I gathered him into my arms even though it meant getting makeup all over my shirt. I suddenly appreciated what Paul went through whenever Karen had a torrential outburst. I spoke gently, “I would have preferred being primed verbally first, rather than you setting up the scene you’ve just set up. It gave me a real shock.”
“I know. I saw your face. I thought you were going to faint. I’m so sorry,” he gazed at me and though his eyes were smudged with a messy collage of mascara and eye shadow I still couldn’t help but think how pretty they were. “I didn’t know how else to broach the subject. Anyway, I thought you must have had some inkling. I mean I’m more Glam Damsel than Vince Diesel aren’t I?”
“Vin, it’s Vin Diesel.”
“Whoever,” he sniffed miserably.
“You should have told me straight away.”
“Oh come on,” there was more than a touch of acid in his voice. “I wouldn’t have seen your frigging arse for dust. You’d have turned Road Runner, meep, meep and away, just like all my other boyfriends. I wanted to hang onto you. I really like you. I thought if you got to know one part of me first, and liked it enough, then accepting the other part of me might be easier.”
I suddenly felt unreasonably jealous that he’d ever had any other boyfriend but me, which told me everything I needed to know. Dress, wig, makeup, high heels, it didn’t matter, well, not too much, we’d get round it, somehow. He was still the man I’d begun to lose my heart to, if it wasn’t completely lost already.
“Come on, Jonathan my man,” I stood up pulling him with me. “Let’s get you freshened up and you can tell me all about your feminine side over dinner.”
“Twinkles, I like to be called Twinkles, or Twinks. It’s silly I know, but my friends call me it and I feel far closer to it than I do to my real name.”
I swallowed and gave a cautious nod, “okay, Twinkles it is.” His smile, even through the devastated mask of his makeup, made my toes curl with pleasure. As the tag line to Vin’s film Riddick goes: ‘all the power in the universe can’t change destiny’ so why fight it.’ Why indeed.
Thus it was that my own sweet boy came out of the closet wearing a dress and make up. Life would never be quite the same again, and it wouldn’t be easy, but I would learn to adapt, somehow.
By the time Karen and Paul’s wedding day came round, Twinkles and I were a definite out of the closet item, though we hadn’t moved in together. On the morning of the wedding I decided to call for him early, which as things turned out, was all to the good.
I entered the flat to find him standing in the middle of the tiny sitting room. He gave me a beaming smile and posed, hands held out like an actress at a photo shoot.
“What do you think, Tarn darling, do I look wonderful or not?”
I was speechless, not because he looked wonderful, which in an over the top way he really did, but simply because he had done the exact opposite to what I’d told him to do.
Over the preceding weeks we’d discussed the subject of wedding apparel in great detail, and now here he was, dressed like a larger than life Susie Wong. He was wearing a startling fuchsia pink, skin-tight Chinese silk dress, slashed to the hip, with a black mandarin jacket, black stockings and pink patent high heels. The ensemble was topped off with strings of gleaming pearls and matching earrings. He looked like a Hong Kong Hooker, a relatively classy one I hasten to add. He’d easily have turned a neat profit.
Folding my arms I glared at him, “we talked about this, didn’t we?” He ignored me.
“I’ll just get my handbag from the bedroom and re-powder my nose and then we can go to this quaint little monogamous dedication festival.” Blowing me a charming, disregarding kiss, he then turned and walked towards the bedroom, doing what my father would have termed in relation to my sister when she was young, the Maryann wiggle and flounce. It was a cheeky little gesture made with the backside and it spoke more eloquently than words. In Twinkle’s case, it clearly said ‘fuck you, Tarn.’ Cheeky didn’t begin to describe it, nor did provocative. It was pure up yours defiance. I suddenly realised, with shattering clarity, why, when my sister had done it, it had made my dad just about hit the roof.
In my sister’s case it had frequently resulted in her wiggle i.e. her backside, being spanked. They say that he who dares wins. Not in our house. If you dared dad, you usually lost. He was and still is an old fashioned kind of man, not rigid, because he could always be reasoned with, but by the standards of the day, definitely strict. Misbehaviour brought consequences. I have a very clear memory of the last time I personally incurred consequences from my father. It occurred for a number of reasons, not least because it was the day I came out of the proverbial closet. Okay, I feel another tangent approaching. Take a seat and make yourselves comfortable because it’s a long one.
I was, or thought I was, a mature man of fifteen, soon to be sixteen years old and thus beyond parental consequences. I’d bunked off school solidly for a fortnight to bum around town being a public nuisance with a gang of lads I didn’t really like, or have anything in common with. What I did have was a major crush on the gang leader, Trevor Ledbetter. He was a blond haired, blue-eyed god and I couldn’t stop thinking and fantasising about him. It was awful and rather tragic in its way. He was obviously straight and had a string of girlfriends. I wasn’t sure what I was, or more truthfully I was confused and frightened by my perverse sexuality and kept hoping and praying it would go away and I’d wake up normal.
At night when I closed my eyes and wandered into that hormone encrusted, teenage fantasyland, Trevor was the object of all my horny little desires. I got through more Kleenex than a common cold research centre. Leaving lust aside, I think getting mixed up with him and his friends was my way of trying to prove I was one of the acceptable lads. Perhaps I was hoping their perceived normality would rub off on me.
My fortnight of being a member of the macho mob ended abruptly one Thursday afternoon. After a fruitless, boring morning wandering aimlessly around a cold, wet town centre, we went into W.H.Smiths to browse the magazines. A lad called Michael Brown pushed a copy of Playboy up his coat sleeve and the others started to do the same until half the soft porno magazines on the top shelf had disappeared.
I wasn’t happy with this turn of affairs. Quite apart from the fact the magazines didn’t grab my interest that much, theft was a step beyond where I was willing to go. We ended up having a falling out when I refused to do my bit in the thieving stakes and walked out of the shop.
My hero Trevor turned nasty and accused me of being a whining, spineless little snob. He said he was sick of me hanging around all the time and I could piss off before he decided to punch my teeth out. I was cut to the quick.
I arrived home to discover my misdeeds had caught up with me. School had finally done an ET and phoned home. I rowed with my mother about it, taking my unhappiness about Trevor out on her and telling her it was none of her business whether I went to school or not. I was old enough to make my own decisions and I was sick of being told who to be and what to do. Then I did the teenage thing and took myself off to my room, slamming the door behind me saying I wanted to be left alone. Mum obliged, but dad was a different matter. He had no intention of indulging my Garbo inclinations.
As soon as he got home from work he was put in the picture about my errant activities. To say he was displeased was an understatement. Marching into my room he demanded an explanation. After several hours of brooding over Trevor and worrying about school I was ripe for a blow out. I told him much the same as I’d told mum, only a little more forcefully. Unlike mum he didn’t accept it without comment. He said, on the contrary, what I did was very much his business. My behaviour clearly showed I was in no way old enough or mature enough to be making independent decisions.
I told him I didn’t give a damn what he thought, and as far as I was concerned I’d said as much as I was prepared to say on the subject. I was going out. I then attempted to push past him, only to be grabbed by the collar, turned smartly around and smacked several times on the seat of the trousers. It was a tremendous shock. I hadn’t been so much as swatted since I was about twelve. He again demanded a full explanation for my behaviour and suddenly, to my absolute horror, all my mixed up emotions came tumbling out. In fact I came out, to dad, but mainly, for the first time, I came out fully to myself. I was Tarn Swan, homosexual.
After a stunned moment of silence, dad swallowed hard and said, “are you seriously telling me you’ve deliberately missed a fortnight of vital education to follow that loser Ledbetter around, like a love sick puppy dog with its tongue hanging out?”
My entire body grew hot with shame and embarrassment. It wasn’t how I’d have chosen to describe it, but I suppose it was a fair enough assessment in its own way. What really upset me though was him seeming to view two missed weeks of school as being more important than what I’d just disclosed about my sexuality. I was insulted. I’d expected something more and said so.
His reply was blunt. If I thought for a second what I’d just told him somehow made my behaviour excusable, I was sadly mistaken. I’d better understand I was in deep trouble. I told him I didn’t give a shit about being in trouble. He could fuck off and leave me alone because it was obvious he understood nothing. I don’t know who was more shocked by my attitude, him or me. I’d been a fairly equable teenager up until that point.
In retrospect I was very scared. I was standing on the threshold of the rest of my life, wanting to step forward, but also to go back to the safety of childhood with all its ignorance about bigger matters such as self-identity and sexuality. My behaviour was challenging dad, daring him to do something, because I was frightened and I didn’t know what to do.
He responded. Sitting on my bed he hauled me over his knee saying I was a silly little boy and he’d be damned if he’d see me throw away all my good potential on an adolescent crush that could come to nothing. I was going to have to learn to direct my affections where they stood even half a chance of being reciprocated. He then proceeded to give me the hardest spanking of my entire life. As his voice scorched my ears, so his hand smote every inch of my backside until I thought I would never be able to put my bottom in contact with a chair again.
By the time his hand stilled I’d learned several valuable lessons: never bunk off school for two weeks to bum around causing irritation to good people while endangering your forthcoming exam chances, never tell your father to fuck off when he’s already mad at you, and finally, thinking you’re too old for a spanking is a rather ghastly mistake.
When it was over and I was allowed up from his lap, I wrapped my arms around his neck sobbing my fear and unhappiness into his shoulder. His arms came around my waist and he hugged me tight. Once I’d calmed a little he took my tearstained face between his hands and fiercely told me he loved me very much and was proud of me. It was then I realised he was crying almost as hard as I was. Even now I’m unsure whether he was crying because he’d punished me so hard, or whether he was crying because his only son had just disclosed he was gay. I suppose I learned another lesson that afternoon, never underestimate your parent’s willingness to love you.
Dad informed me I was grounded for a fortnight and then sent me off to bed. Mum, her eyes suspiciously red, came in and told me I’d got exactly what I deserved for playing hooky from school for a fortnight indeed. Despite my protests she insisted on washing my face with a flannel, as if I were about five years old, then she brought me hot chocolate and chocolate digestives before kissing me goodnight. My sister Maryann opened my bedroom door, stared at me as if I were a specimen in the fishmongers window, then rushed in, hugged me and rushed back out…taking one of my biscuits with her I might add.
There I was, almost sixteen, newly self-defined as gay, having just come out to my family who probably didn’t quite understand, but who would never condemn or reject me, a family who still loved ‘me.’
Feeling faintly cheated at not being dramatically disowned and cast onto the streets, I shed a few more tears, blew my nose, drank my hot chocolate, ate my biscuits, then, feeling oddly at peace, curled up under the covers and slept for twelve solid hours, never once dreaming of Trevor.
Nothing was going to be quite the same again and nothing was going to be easy, but I would adapt, somehow. Dad had done what I needed him to do. The spanking served not only to punish my actions, but also let me know he was still in charge when it mattered. Strange as it sounds he gave me back control of my life by ironically taking charge of it again, at least until I found a stronger foothold. I settled down at school, passed my exams with flying colours and generally got on with living life and growing in self-awareness and confidence.
Okay, that’s the end of my personal trip down memory lane. Let’s get back to the case of the overdressed, uninvited wedding guest.
Twinkles soon emerged from his bedroom again, handbag looped over his arm, nose presumably powdered.
“Let’s go then, we mustn’t keep the virgin, ha-ha, bride waiting now must we, or she’ll go past her use by date?”
Happily un-closeted as gay for quite some time, it was time I un-closeted myself as something else…a man in charge when the situation required it. My first act as such would be to put my naughty boy’s lady half, Miss Stardust, firmly back in the closet, at least for a day and also teach her creator all about consequences. I cleared my throat. “We’ll go when you’re suitably attired. Get changed please, Jonathan.”
He pulled a face, batting his lush eyelashes, “ooohh, Jonathan is it? It must be a very formal wedding we’re going to if we’re using Sunday names!”
“Get changed.”
He gave me a look of mock sorrow. “Oh dear, don’t you like my dress? I thought it was just so right for a wedding, but, if it’s not to your rather conservative taste, I’ll go see if there’s one you might like better in my wardrobe.” He headed back towards the bedroom, and then halted, turning to look over his shoulder at me, “you can come peek if you want to?” He trotted off and there it was again - the wiggle and flounce clearly stating I’m defying you, what are you going to do about it? He was challenging me, daring me. I responded.
Quickly following him into the bedroom I thrust him onto the bed, pushing him onto his back, ignoring his theatrical squeals. Grabbing hold of each foot in turn I whipped off his high heels and flung the aside. Taking his hand I then yanked him back up, telling him to get his clothes off.
Smoothing his dress in an exaggerated fashion he gave me a breathless and superlative gay simper. “Tarn, sweetheart, you’re quite the rough Viking today. I know I look ravishing, but isn’t sex supposed to come after the nuptials on a wedding day. We mustn’t break with tradition now, must we?”
“I’ve had enough, Jonathan, more than enough.” Removing my jacket I draped it over the dressing table stool. “Get those things off.”
Recognising I was in no mood to play, he plonked himself down on the edge of the bed, legs splayed in a most unladylike fashion, his simper degenerating into a scowl. “Fine, I won’t go then, you can go on your own. I hope you have a lovely time. You might even get to shag the best man if he gets drunk enough.”
“You’re going.” I stabbed a finger at him, “for one thing, you’ve been catered for, and very expensively.”
“If I can’t wear what I want to wear, then I’m not going. Stuff the expense. It’s not mine, so I’m not bothered.”
I was fast losing patience with his selfish attitude. “You’re going, Jonathan, and you’re going to dress appropriate to the occasion, as we discussed. We agreed: mascara and a touch of clear nail polish, nothing more.” I reached for his hand, yanking him to his feet again, “now take those things off or I’ll take them off for you. I mean it, Jonathan.”
“I hate it when you call me Jonathan.”
“Are you going to do as you’re told?”
He stared at me and I steadily stared back. Dropping his gaze, he began to undress, flinging the Chinese dress and jacket across the bed. As soon as he’d taken everything off, wig included, I sent him to remove his makeup.
When he came back into the room, face scrubbed clean, his own short brown hair slightly damp at the front I reached for his hand, pulling him down beside me on the bed, quietly asking. “What the hell was that all about?”
He shrugged. “I just wanted to dress up. You’re supposed to dress up for weddings. Why should girls get all the fun?”
I sighed, slipping an arm around his shoulder, pulling him against me, “apart from anything else, you’re not being fair to me. I’m not trying to crush your sense of self. We talked about the reasons why it wasn’t appropriate for you to dress up on this occasion, didn’t we?” He nodded and I prompted. “Tell me what they are?”
He rolled his eyes and began to chant: “it’s a straight wedding, the chances of there being any other cross dressers are slim. Me dressing up would make me stand out and would upstage the bride and today is her day to shine, not mine.” He took a deep breath and continued: “also, her parents are conservative Catholics, there’ll also be a number of elderly relatives and small children there, and it’s only good manners to behave in ways that suit the occasion and the majority of the people attending it…blah, blah, blah-de-blah.”
I ignored the blah, blah, recognising it for the defence mechanism it was. “What did I say I’d do, if I arrived to find you dressed in anything less than appropriate attire?”
He looked at me and blushed, but said nothing, so I answered my own question. “I said if I got here and discovered you’d disregarded everything we talked about, and broken your promise, I would put you over my knee and give you a good spanking.”
The roses in his cheeks bloomed a deeper shade of red. He examined the backs of his hands in minute detail, “but you didn’t really mean it, you were just joking, or trying to scare me, right?”
I shook my head. “I’ve told you before, several times, I’m of the opinion you’d benefit from some discipline, so no, I wasn’t joking, far from it. Is that why you staged this, to test me out, to push and see whether or not I’d follow through on my word?”
He shrugged, and then raised his head and looked at me. His beautiful gold brown eyes were filled with a mixture of bravado and anxiety, flecked with a touch of excitement. “Are you going to follow through?”
“Yes, I am. I don’t make empty threats, and I’m warning you now, discard any idea this is going to be fun. I’m going to discipline you properly. We’re not talking playful sexy pats, this will be the real thing and you’re not going to like it.”
The excitement vanished from his eyes, “there’s no need, Tarn, really. I’m sorry I messed you about. I was being a selfish sod.” He made to stand up. “I’ll get dressed properly, I’ll…TARN!”
Taking his wrist, I quickly pulled him forwards over my knees, securing my left arm around his waist, bringing my right palm down hard on the seat of the satin boxer shorts he was wearing. He let out a shocked little gasp and I quickly followed the first smack with a second one. “I told you what I expected of you today, yet I arrive to find you’ve done exactly the opposite. I’m not impressed.” I rounded the number of spanks up to a quick six then stopped.
“Is that it, is it done, can I get up now?” He reached an optimistic hand back to rub his bottom.
I calmly broke the bad news to him, “no I’m afraid not, that was merely a warm up.”
“But I don’t like it, Tarn.”
“You’re not supposed to like it,” I said gently, “that’s the point of a discipline spanking. It’s not a bedroom tease with a sex payoff.”
He let out a squeak of alarm as I lifted him and pulled his shorts down, baring his bottom, before rearranging him over my thighs. “I gave you a clear warning about the consequences of disobeying me on this matter. You agreed to abide by my rule, so you have only yourself to blame for the position you’re now in.”
Raising my hand, I brought it down hard on his buttocks, which were already pink from the smacks I’d given him over his boxers. It made a loud noise, far louder than my hand contacting his shorts had done, and he jumped with fright. I brought it down again and he yelped. The third spank brought a stronger response and the fourth found him trying to wriggle off my lap. Anchoring him more firmly, I set about putting some genuine heat and sting into his behind.
Discipline was a subject we’d skirted around for quite a while. I’d threatened to spank him once or twice when he was being particularly trying, and had even given him some half serious, half playful swats, telling him he needed taking in hand. I suspected it was a notion he rather liked. He’d been forced to be in control of his own life from a young age, before he was ready. I think the idea of handing over aspects of control to a person he trusted was one that appealed to him.
I also suspected he was naturally submissive by nature and in me had finally found someone he wanted to be submissive to. I think I’m a natural Dominant and in him had found someone I wanted to be dominant with, not in a pure bdsm sense you understand, that’s a different arena, though there might be some similar elements insofar as a power exchange is involved.
There’s a mistaken concept that submissive people are by definition weak, but it’s untrue. Self-aware submissive’s are actually strong people and they’re submissive by choice, not out of inadequacy, inferiority or fear. They don’t let anyone and everyone dominate them. It has to be the right person. The emotional and sexual chemistry has to be right. It’s the same for a Dominant. They’re not bullies. They don’t want to govern everyone. It has to be the right person. There’s a huge amount of trust involved in the transaction, from both parties. Two people might not even realise they have these elements to their personality until they meet and the spark ignites. I think that’s what happened between Twinkles and me. We were so right for each other.
Twinkles was not enjoying the consequences of the situation he’d set up. As promised, I wasn’t being playful. I slapped his backside hard and fast, intending to leave him with no delusions about what getting a spanking really meant. He’d given up on gasps and suppressed squeals and was thrashing his feet around while lustily yelling loud enough to waken the dead. I only hoped the neighbours were out. He began wailing apologies, saying I could stop now, as he’d had enough.
I paused, told him I appreciated he was sorry, but when it came to discipline it was for me to decide when he’d had enough, not him. Then I resumed the spanking, turning his bottom a shade of hot red from hips to the point where his buttocks met his thighs. He suddenly stopped fighting against me and began sobbing. I stopped the punishment. Helping him to stand I pulled up his boxers and then pulled him into my arms to comfort him. He was shaking like a leaf, and so was I.
Giving someone a discipline spanking can be as intense an experience as receiving one. I was in as much need of comfort as he was. I took mine from the fact that after what I’d done he still wanted to be close to me, still wanted me to comfort him. He wrapped his arms tightly around me, burying his face in my shirtfront. I soothed him until the tears ebbed away and he was calm again. Taking his hand I led him to the bathroom and bathed his face. I then sponged and smoothed my tear damp shirt and took him back into the bedroom. Opening his closet I picked out a suit, shirt and tie and began to dress him.
“You look beautiful.” I slotted a black leather belt through the tabs on his tailored trousers and buckled it and then smiled, “you are beautiful, and sexy.”
He smiled back at me, “thank you, so are you.” The smile faded a little. “I’ve never been to a wedding. I had a cousin who got married once, but I had German measles and couldn’t go.”
I kissed him, “you’ll enjoy it, I promise. Weddings are the last bastions of glamour in the straight community. I’ll be right beside you, so there’s nothing to worry about. We’re going to have a lovely day together.”
He reached a hand back to rub his sore bottom, a slight frown on his face, “is it a buffet or sit down reception?”
“Sit down meal I’m afraid,” I gave him a sympathetic hug. “I’m sure the soreness will soon wear off, it isn’t permanent.”
Picking up the Chinese dress and jacket from the bed, I put them on hangers and put them back in the closet. Then I helped him on with his suit jacket, tweaked his tie, and we were ready to go.
As a postscript we did indeed have a lovely day. Twinkles was in his element, commenting on the outfits worn by other guests and admiring the beautiful elaborate frocks worn by the bride and her entourage. Rather worryingly I found myself taking an interest in the details on the bridal veil, as well as the little sequins adorning the train. Both Karen, and her best friend, Sue, who was chief bridesmaid, had already promised Twinks he could try on their full ensembles at a date to be arranged. He couldn’t wait.
In time honoured bridal fashion, when it came to leaving the reception to head for her honeymoon destination, Karen threw her bouquet. I say threw…she actually hurled it like a rugby prop forward…straight at me. “You’re next,” she mouthed. I grinned. Somehow I couldn’t see myself dressed in white.
Watching Karen and Paul run hand in hand to their waiting car, laughing as they dodged handfuls of rice and confetti, I suddenly envied them. I envied their right to have their love acknowledged, legalised, approved and celebrated before witnesses. I wanted the same right. The knowledge overwhelmed me. I was in love and I wanted to legally acknowledge it before witnesses. At the time it was something still withheld from me as a member of the gay community.
I looked at Twinkles, the man I loved. I had no idea why, he drove me to distraction at times, but when I wasn’t with him, all I could do was think about ‘being’ with him, and when I was with him I didn’t want to leave him. I didn’t ever want to leave him. Presenting him with the bouquet of roses and freesias, I asked, “as soon as it becomes legal to do so, will you marry me, and in the meantime move in with me as my partner?” Of course he said yes, and the rest, as they say, is history.
In the first instalment of The Stardust Diaries ‘Swan Songs…extracts from my life with Stardust Twinkles’… I make mention of a posthumous letter sent out from our friend Steven after his passing away from AIDS complications. This is a transcript of the letter in question, along with a postscript by Steven’s partner, Brian.
I hope that those of you that might read it will be moved to give at least a small donation to an AIDS charity of your choice. It doesn’t have to be much, just a few pence/cents, whatever you can spare.
AIDS is still a concern for all of us. It’s a global tragedy that impacts the lives of millions of men, women and children. Please give them your support. At the very least buy and wear a red ribbon on December 1st every year in memory of those whose lives have been stolen away by AIDS.
Thank you
Tarn Swan
My dear friends,
Bear with me as I ask what seems an abstract question: where does loneliness have its origins? Answer: I don’t know. I wish I did. Some people are never touched by loneliness while others are haunted by it all their days, even when in company. Maybe it’s a genetic thing, something you’re literally born with, or conversely something born with you as you pass from the safe, warm darkness of your mother’s womb into the sharp, uncertain light of life. It might lie dormant for a time, like a virus that you carry hidden within the cells of your body, just waiting for the right moment to announce its presence.
I was in my late teens when my own particular loneliness made known its full presence. Until then it had been a vague shadow, something that stalked the corners of any room I happened to be in. It was a thing sensed and glimpsed, but without clear form.
One day while walking through a summer marketplace crowded with people, the assorted vendors shouting their wares, the place a hubbub of sound, colour and motion, I suddenly stopped short for no reason I could think of, much to the exasperation of the busy people whose path I was blocking.
I felt all at once disconnected from the world around me. All I knew was that I was achingly lonely. Hard on the heels of this sudden understanding came awful awareness of something else, one day I would die. It took my breath away this sudden knowledge of my own mortality. A terrible sense of premonition washed over me. Standing there in the heat of a beautiful, shimmering August day, a day full of life with fresh strawberries and peaches scenting the warm air, I cried. I cried because I was lonely and I had suddenly become aware of my own mortality. From that moment on the tears never really stopped.
I saw a doctor who told me I was depressed. He sent me to see a therapist who in turn told me I needed to admit who I was to myself, and to then share that knowledge with whomsoever I chose. The implication of course, was that my ‘coming out’ as gay would make me less lonely and less depressed.
So, I came out when I was nineteen, almost twenty. I had a good family who did not reject me after all. I also discovered the meaning of true friendship, though in the process I scored several names from my address book.
I took sex partners, perhaps I should say lovers, but in all honesty they were not lovers, they were just sex partners, fuck buddies as our American friends might say, lots of them. I, you see, came out with a vengeance, determined to be who I had been created to be, to have a good time and to banish the frightening spectre of loneliness. For a time I succeeded. Life was good. I was young, free and desirable. I had no time to be lonely.
Then a few years down the line, I got sick, with the flu. Only, as it turned out, it wasn’t the flu virus my body was harbouring it was HIV. My days of sexual liberality had caught up with me.
Suddenly I was back in that summer marketplace with life going on all around me, while I stood weeping from loneliness and a terrible awareness of mortality. The sense of premonition I’d experienced seemed justified. Death went from something that would occur sometime in the hazy future into something that might happen at any moment.
I crept back inside myself. My only bed partner was a shadowy creature called AIDS. It retired with me at night and woke up with me in the morning.
The first six months after diagnosis were the worst. Every blemish on my skin was a sign I was developing Kaposi’s sarcoma, every sneeze, every cough a sign that pneumonia was imminent. My depression returned and I entertained thoughts of suicide, of killing myself before this thing called AIDS killed me. Then I realised in effect I had already committed suicide. I had been playing Russian roulette with my life every time I had unprotected sex and I had lost, only, the bullet was still some way off yet, in suspended animation.
Gradually I calmed down and with some counselling I slowly learned to adjust and come to terms with my HIV status. The bullet would still come, I knew that, but then death is a bullet that comes for all of us at some point. The moment we enter into life it sets in motion, there is just no telling when it will strike. In my case it could be weeks, months or years. Drugs were getting better all the time and I could just as easily be killed in an accident as be killed by the thing I carried hidden within the cells of my body. I made an effort to continue with my life.
After anger and fear, guilt was the hardest thing to overcome, guilt about whom I might have infected while I carried the virus all unknowing. Most of the men I had slept with didn’t even have names, well, not that I could remember, let alone phone numbers and addresses. They represented sex without commitment, one night stands without responsibility and one of them had infected me, and who knows how many I had then infected. I had little excuse. The dangers were known, but they happened to other people. Now I had to face a hard truth. I was one of the other people.
Coming to terms with my HIV status was one thing, but I found I also needed to come to terms with my reawakened loneliness. It stuck to my bones, a constant ache on waking and sleeping. It sat at the dinner table with me, worked at my desk, accompanied me to the cinema and the pub, a companion to the other virus that dwelled within me. There seemed every chance I would be lonely for whatever remained of my life. I tried to accept it as a form of destiny, perhaps even a punishment for my reckless promiscuity.
Then I met Brian, on a train of all places, on a bitter cold day in February. The train in question had broken down. We had exchanged glances throughout the journey and my mind was going through the evaluation process of: ‘is he, isn’t he gay, is he, isn’t he looking at me, am I projecting my own desires?’ Then suddenly he started a conversation about the halted train and how long we were likely to be stuck between stations.
Before long I had discovered his name, his favourite foods, his favourite films and books, plus the music he liked and how he earned his living. Those of you who know Brian know just how much he loves to talk.
I discovered he co-owned several bars and nightclubs, of which his personal favourite was a small establishment going by the name of The Pink Parrot. He described it as a leather and transvestite heaven peopled by exotic angels, and quite a few devils.
It was cold on the train and Brian noticed me shivering. Taking a flask from his pocket he offered me a sip of brandy. I hesitated, and he looked at me quizzically asking if I were teetotal. For some extraordinary reason I blurted out the fact I was HIV positive. I waited for one of the reactions I had come to expect, the slight drawing away, the look in the eyes, disgust, fear, or the opposite response of pity.
There was nothing. He just gave the flask in his hand an impatient little shake and I took it and had a sip of the warming fluid it contained. Then he took off his scarf and draped it carefully around my neck, tucking it inside my jacket. I almost cried at this tender kindness from a stranger. It was one of the most intimate things a man had ever done for me. This, I suddenly realised, was what I’d been searching and longing for all my life.
My greatest mistake was to equate sex with intimacy. I’d indulged in frenetic sexual activity when what I’d actually wanted was someone to put a scarf around my neck, to straighten my tie, to brush fingers through my hair, to help me shave, to hold my hand, someone to watch the sunset with, and someone to kiss me goodnight and kiss me again in the morning.
When I stepped off that train wearing Brian’s scarf, his hand at my elbow, it was as if I had passed through a portal and been reborn. I left something behind me, loneliness. Its ache had vanished from my bones.
The rest, as they say, is history, and if you’re reading these, my rambling written thoughts, then my dear friends so am I. I’m not bitter, so don’t cry for me. I’m so lucky I found Brian and through him some wonderful people who became wonderful friends. Thank you all for the fun, the laughter and the support. I came to discover something he said on the train was true. The Pink Parrot is indeed a heaven whose exotic angels, and devils, accepted me without judgement. I love you all so very much.
I’m not ready to leave Brian, but I must. I knew my own particular bullet was in motion, travelling to catch up with me after the first bout of pneumonia, we both did. We talked and we planned and we made love and we enjoyed life and each other and we have said our goodbyes. I’ve told him he has to take other lovers, but I’ll be the only one waiting for him on the other side. There’ll be a train at a station and I’ll be in it, waiting to be reunited with my soul mate. I have no doubt we’ll meet again.
Love you all, take care, live life, use condoms.
Steven K. xxx
I’ll always remember the ethereal silence, the subdued hush of that last day. Steven was too ill, too tired, too drugged to be able to speak. It didn’t matter. We no longer had need for verbal communication. All that remained to be said between us was being said in the simple touching of hands. Our touch grew stronger from fingertips to the warm embrace of palm against palm. Clasping tighter, I knew the time was approaching.
As his breathing slowed our eyes met for the final time. He smiled, I smiled back, and then his hand slipped from mine leaving a residual fast cooling sweat. Never in my life have I experienced such a profound sense of loneliness.
I know my life will go on, but I also know I will never love again, not with such intensity, such beauty. We were meant for each other and I thank God for the time I shared with Steven, my only wish is that it could have been longer. Even now when the phone rings unexpectedly my heart begins to beat faster and a futile hope emerges, that somehow the past few weeks have been a terrible nightmare and it will be Steven calling to say he’ll be home soon.
I will spend the rest of my days seeking his face on crowded buses, on busy streets, while knowing I am pursuing a lingering dream. I will treasure for all time the final moment when our two hands touched and communicated a simple, but perfect message of trust and love. He and I shared a unique experience of life. We had a shared consciousness, which is hard to explain, soul mates he said. I believe he was right, we were soul mates indeed. I look forward to the moment when I board that train and find my darling Steven waiting for me.
Brian
The End
The ‘Stardust Diaries’ series by Tarn Swan:
Swan Songs - The Stardust Diaries -Going to the Chapel - The Stardust Diaries 2007
If you enjoy M/M stories with a discipline and D/s slant then visit Fabian Black’s website for beautiful stories, excerpts, free reads and contests.