Gilliflowers (12 page)

I lurched out of bed fully aware I was in the ugly grip of what Dick and Shane term one of my ‘nagging wife’ moods.

My mouth became a repository of acidic complaints it felt compelled to discharge.

It complained about the mess left in the bathroom: the hairs everywhere, in the sink, in the shower and on the tiles. It was like living with a couple of moulting dogs, what did they do after a shower for fuck’s sake, shake their bodies dry? It moaned about caps being left off shampoo bottles and toothpaste tubes. It ranted about toothpaste spitting. Was it too much to ask that they SPAT their toothpaste in the general vicinity of the plughole and rinsed it away properly, instead of leaving unsightly white rivulets caked to the side of the sink, which had to be scraped off! It was disgusting. It carped about the way they peed. The toilet bowl was big enough for Christ’s sake, so how come they managed to splash urine all round the rim. It wasn’t as if they had cocks the size of fire hoses, they shouldn’t be too difficult to control. I didn’t splash around the rim when I peed. Spit and piss, that’s all I did, mop up spit and piss, day in and day out. I might as well call myself spit piss boy, skid mark spit piss boy and offer myself to a convention of gay skinheads for sexually motivated abuse!

My renegade gob also whinged about the damp towels left on the floor and then there was the mess in the bedroom, on the landing, in the kitchen:
whine, moan, no
appreciation of my work, mutter, grouse, grumble, random profanity, taken for
granted.

The worst thing about such moods is being conscious of what a shit I’m being. It’s like having an out of body experience. I can see and hear myself from a distance going on and on and I’m thinking, for fuck’s sake, man, what is wrong with you? Put a sock in your mouth and SHURRUP!’ I can’t stop though. It’s like I’m possessed by a demon of ill grace, which I’m powerless to control. I’ve noticed since keeping a medical journal that such niggling moods often come in the wake of an episode, so perhaps it’s to do with chemical balances in my brain. I don’t know for sure. What I do know for sure is I get on everyone’s nerves, including my own.

In the end the men folk didn’t so much leave for work as form an escape committee, both electing to leave earlier and together rather than endure any more of my irritable petty bitching. I didn’t blame them. I would have gotten away from me too if I could. Before leaving Shane instructed me to put some sugar on my sour temper and sweeten it or there would be trouble.

I decided to go out for a run to see if it would work the worm out of my tail, but it didn’t. It was cold and the streets were populated with hordes of people walking pooches, which I had to constantly dodge around. What is it with dog walkers?

They’re like zombies. They all emerge onto the streets in packs at exactly the same time of day.

By the time I got back home I had a sinus headache brought on by the cold. I’d also tweaked my knee by pulling myself out of a potential fall when I skidded on a patch of black ice on the road. It happened after bypassing a massive and mean looking German shepherd dog that was hogging the pavement. Had it been a tiny little pooch I’d probably have barked a reprimand at its owner, but no way was I barking anything at the owner of a dog that looked like it could tear off my leg with one bite.

All I wanted to do was have a nice long soak in a hot bath, but I’m not allowed to bathe when there’s no one else at home. I did once suggest to Shane I could call him on my mobile once I was in the bath and keep the line open. His response was to snarl:
‘yes, that would be perfect, as in the event of you having a fit I’ll be able to
listen to you drowning as I race out of the office to the car park to begin the drive
home. I’ll get back in time to fish your corpse from the water.’
Subject closed. The rule is written on tablets of stone. No bathing or showering when alone in the house.

He doesn’t care if I stink like a garbage truck in high summer. I wash at the sink or stay smelly until someone comes home.

After freshening myself up I decided a pull on the one-armed bandit might help disperse some of my negative tension. Come on, we all do it, de-stress by masturbation. I Googled up some porn. It didn’t help. The models were more lukewarm than hot and the one-armed bandit refused to pay out. Men, even gay men, have days when their libido is limp, so, sticking my limp libido back in my pants before it got a friction rash I turned my edgy energies elsewhere.

In a moment of utter derangement I decided to make kedgeree for dinner.

Kedgeree is a dish that should only be attempted when you’re in a mood of happy relaxation, for example on a Sunday morning after satisfying sex. It’s fiddly and all of the component ingredients, rice, fish, eggs etc, can be temperamental. It is not a dish to make when you’re rampantly grumpy. I should have opened a few cans of soup and slung a frozen pizza in the oven, but no, idiot that I am, I decided to fart around with kedgeree. I put eggs on to boil and then got on with some housework, scrubbing the bathroom sink free of toothpaste spittings and such like.

I was in the process of changing the sheet on our bed when an almighty bang sounded from downstairs. I just about pooped my kecks with fright. It sounded like a small bomb going off. I galloped downstairs and into the kitchen just as another explosion shook the windowpanes. My fears of an attack by anti-gay terrorists proved unfounded. I’d forgotten all about the eggs. The pan had boiled dry and they were exploding like hand grenades. I was showered in shell shrapnel. Grabbing the pan I chucked it in the sink turning the cold-water tap on.

The kitchen was a mess. There was egg and shell everywhere, even on the ceiling.

The smell was vile, burnt eggshell is unpleasantly acrid, like burning rubber.

Despite the egg setback I pressed ahead with the kedgeree. It was a disaster, and not just because I’d blown up one of the ingredients. The rice was sticky, the fish was overcooked and tough and I’d put too much curry powder in it. However I couldn’t be bothered to do anything else. In a vain attempt to make it taste better I chucked some extra salt and lemon juice on it. I served it self-consciously, waiting for negative comment. It soon came.

Shane was typically blunt. After a couple of forkfuls he declared it revolting, inedible, an insult to the serving dish I’d piled it in. He said I had taste buds for heaven's sake I must have realised it wasn’t fit for consumption. Dick agreed. I was offended, even though I knew it was foul. To my mind they should have appreciated the effort I’d put in. They should have eaten it to please me, but no, no one ever pleased Gilli. It was up to Gilli to do all the pleasing in this house of gay inequality!

I displayed my feelings by aggressively stacking their full plates one on top of the other. I toted them off to the kitchen heeling the door shut behind me before dumping the plates in the sink, cracking both in the process. Shane followed hot on my heels intent on making plain his annoyance. He’d been at work all day and he expected to come home to civil company and a decent meal. It was my job to provide both and I’d failed abysmally. The broken plates were the final straw.

Daddy did what he said he should have done that morning. He sorted me out.

Grabbing hold of me he doubled me over, tucked me under his left arm and set about adjusting the attitude of his ill humoured houseboy. He didn’t hold back, ferociously walloping his hand against my bottom. It wasn’t a prolonged spanking, but it was enough to break my temper and bring me to tears.

Afterwards he made me a promise. Next time I got out of bed with a face on me like a smacked arse, he’d give me a smacked arse right there and then, as it might save everyone, not least me, from prolonged tension and grief.

Despite having a dinosaur bum (a megasorearse) I felt a lot better afterwards. The spanking and the tears it brought were cathartic. I was released from the grip of my brutal irritation and able to get on with things without feeling weighed down with inappropriate aggression.

The rest of the evening was much more relaxed. I apologised, receiving a nod of forgiveness from Shane and a cuddle from Dick. I re-made dinner serving up salad and pizza and while not exactly gourmet it was at least pleasant. I curled up on the couch between them after dinner feeling more at peace than I’d felt all day.

Thursday, Valentine’s Day, was altogether nicer. It was a memory day because this year I got cards from both the boyfriends, plus flowers from Shane and a plush cuddly teddy bear from Dick. It’s fuck ugly, seriously. I don’t know where he bought it, an underground store for teddies that might terrify children from the look of its face, but I love it to bits.

The boyfriends don’t usually do Valentine’s Day. They didn’t give anything to each other, they never have. It isn’t their custom. Perhaps last year’s debacle helped them decide to abandon their romanceless policy if not for themselves then at least for me. Or maybe my complaining bad temper of the day before had something to do with it.

The card from Dick had a message of love written in his elegant back sloping script and a sprinkle of biro kisses. The one from Shane was signed simply and starkly with his name. It wasn’t tarted up with wasted words such as:
to Gilli, from
. It was just his name written under the simple printed greeting of Happy Valentine’s Day.

I suspect Dick of being the instigator of the cards and gifts. He probably encouraged Shane to buy something Valentine for the houseboy lest he sulk and feel unloved. I didn’t question too closely, paying homage to the adage - never look a gift horse in the mouth.

I indulged my own romantic instincts and sent them a card each. I also made a special dinner complete with candlelight and a bowl of roses on the table. For the main course I served up juicy fillet steaks in a creamy peppercorn sauce and was rewarded with high praise and sighs of bliss and contentment. My men like red meat.

Vegetarianism is not for them. It was a good meal, certainly a far cry from the kedgeree catastrophe of the night before.

I have carefully stored away my Valentine cards, my first, but hopefully not my last.

Shane has gone to visit his father again today. He’s staying overnight. The old man still isn’t well, but on the up side he doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. His GP conducted a series of tests and discovered the problem. He’s suffering from B12 deficiency caused by some kind of underlying anaemia. It’s a condition that can lead to cognitive as well as physical problems. He had a chunk of his bowel removed some years ago due to torsion. Apparently people with shortened bowels have problems absorbing B12 from their food, especially as they get older. Anyway, it’s a treatable condition and Shane’s dad should soon be back to his cantankerous old self once the B12

injections build up his red blood stores again. Much relief and fewer phone calls from Penny.

Dick played golf this morning and is now working in his studio. We’re going out for dinner later on, which I’m looking forward to.

Well, dear diary, I’ve tarried here long enough, too long. I’ve got my gobshite head on today. I must go and tidy up the bombsite posing as a kitchen. It’s still cluttered with breakfast and lunch pots. If the GHA (Gay Houseboys Association) launches a surprise inspection I’ll be demoted to scullery boy for crimes against hygiene.

See, I’m not dead. Dick hasn’t kinked me into oblivion, nor have I had my arse kicked into another dimension by Shane. I haven’t chronicled for a month because I’ve been otherwise engaged.

A few weeks ago after enjoying a rather vigorous Saturday morning sex session with Shane, he and I were lying in bed talking, or at least I was talking. He was petting me, smoothing his palm over my body and then down between my legs, caressing and gently kneading my balls, arousing me all over again. Suddenly the kneading stopped and Shane half sat up, keeping his hand on my package.

Something about his demeanour alarmed me. I quickly asked what was wrong and also tried to sit up. He told me to shut up and shoved me flat on my back while he continued to grope and finger my balls in a decidedly un-sexy manner, clinical in fact.

Now, if it had been Dick I wouldn’t have been surprised. I’d have assumed he’d had a kink attack and been overwhelmed by an urge to play doctors and patients. I would have taken a deep breath and braced myself for an assault with a large thermometer, or similar. Shane’s interest was not of a medical kinky boots nature.

“How long have you had this lump in your left testicle, why haven’t you said anything?” The sharp question startled me. Not least because I wasn’t aware I DID

have a lump, hence me not mentioning it. He was right though. He guided my fingers to it. It was most definitely a lump, painless, but a fair size. How the hell could I have missed it? I do enough laying on of hands in that area for one reason and another.

Frankly I was terrified, visions of cancer and losing my testicles looming large in my mind. I’d have to wear prosthetic balls. Shane offered reassurance saying it was probably nothing to worry about, but I was to make an appointment with my GP first thing on Monday morning. He then called his solicitor and had him draw up a will leaving all my worldly goods to Oxfam on the proviso they collected them and he didn’t have to take time off work to bag and deliver my junk in person. (Lie detector says NO!) Oh all right, that bit isn’t true. I just threw it in for a moment of light relief.

When Dick arrived home from golfing he too copped a feel and confirmed yes there was indeed a lump present, by which time it was becoming a tender lump due to all the groping. He couldn’t understand how he’d missed it either seeing as he handles my balls even more than I do.

There followed an anxious weekend, as I waited for my GP surgery to reopen on Monday morning. I spent most of the time with my hands down my pants, compelled to constantly touch the lump, hoping it would magically vanish. In the end Shane threatened to cuff my hands behind my back if I didn’t leave my bollocks alone. He didn’t want pubes in his dinner thank you very much.