Gilliflowers (22 page)

“When you first came on board, Gilli, I made it plain my clubbing days were long gone.”

I pointed out he still occasionally took Dick to clubs, okay, not exactly dance clubs, it’s difficult to dance while shackled to a wall and wearing a butt plug, but still.

I glowered at him. “You don’t take me to the pictures any more and I only get taken out on a Saturday night if it suits you, and it’s boring now I can’t have a drink.”

Dick, who had come back into the lounge, said I hadn’t made known I’d like to go to the pictures. He then said the worst possible thing he could say. “As for clubbing, hun, well, you said yourself, even before your epilepsy got worse that nightclubs aren’t really the best place for you because of the strobe lights.”

He’d touched the right button. I shot to my feet, shouting angrily. “I’m sick to the fucking back teeth of everything coming back to epilepsy. I’m sick of it being used as an embargo. I can’t drink. I can’t dance. It’s like you no longer see me as a person.

I’m just a condition to be managed. It’s what I always dreaded. I don’t get why you both insist on making such a big thing of it. I want a return to when it wasn’t an issue for any of us.”

“We’d all like that, Gilli, but it isn’t going to happen. It’s a plain fact you have epilepsy and it is an issue, if not for you then for me and Dick.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Of course it does for Christ’s sake! Talk sense. We’d be poor men if we didn’t look out for your welfare and health, especially since you refuse to accept you have a condition requiring management. You have seizures, Gilli, fits, episodes, call them what you will, but you have them and they carry the potential for accident and injury, possibly life threatening accident and injury.”

“Gee, thanks, Shane. Cheer me up why don’t you.” My sarcasm was ignored. He was on a roll.

“Every fit you have increases the possibility of subsequent ones being more severe, especially in cases where alcohol is overused and medication underused.

Don’t you listen to anything your consultant says?”

The short answer was no, or rather I did listen, but quickly jettisoned what I didn’t want to take on board, such as the hypothesis he’d aired at my last appointment. The male brain matures later than the female brain. The increase in episodes could be due to cerebrum changes related to my age, as my brain went through the final stages of maturation. The process might have re-sensitised those areas scarred by the meningitis. In all likelihood the fits, or the propensity for them would now remain for life and could increase in potency. Not what I wanted to hear. Oh so not what I wanted to hear. I preferred the optimistic Vera Lynn approach. As far as I was concerned the problem was going to clear up, didn’t know where, didn’t know when, but it would clear up some sunny day.

“You’ve disrupted the evening enough with your antics.” Shane fixed me with a gelid look. “You’ve got a job to finish, so get your bad arse in the kitchen and finish it without any more resentment driven production numbers. Go on, before I lose all patience with you.” He jerked his thumb towards the door.

The cluttered kitchen looked even less appealing than it had earlier. It had to be done though. Slipping off my wood bead bracelets I clattered them onto a worktop and began to gather up dirty pots, scraping their uneaten contents into the bin and then washing them.

Dick came into the kitchen. Picking up a tea towel he began to dry as I washed.

We worked in silence for a few moments and then he said, “I’m sorry I was tetchy with you this morning. I was stressed. You know how much I detest accountants.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, not looking at him. “Stress from the top always filters down to the bottom. I should be used to it by now.”

“You’re often crabbed and snappy, Gil. We don’t hold it against you.”

We fell to silence again, me washing and him drying and stacking the pots to be put away.

“Were you serious about going out dancing, or was it just a wind up ploy, a way of having a dig and getting attention?”

“I’m fed up. I wanted to go out, have a bit of fun with people my own age for a change.”

“Ah,” he teased gently, “so you’re saying life isn’t much fun with Dick and Shane at the moment?”

“Not much. It feels like all penalties and no reward.”

“It will get better again, Gilliflower, once you stop fighting our decision.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know you don’t,” he rubbed a hand down my back, “but you will abide by it.

This is the tough reality of our relationship. We didn’t promise it would always be fun. We discussed it all, Gil, in the beginning, the pros and cons of the structure, and,”

he added, pulling a comical face, “the pros and cons of living with two old men whose disco days are over.”

I gave a small reluctant laugh. “I can’t imagine Shane ever being a disco dude.”

“No. He’s not a disco kind of man. I’d be happy to take you dancing though, if it’s what you really want.”

“It’s nice of you to offer,” I gazed at him solemnly, “but you can’t, Dick. It’s against the law.”

He looked puzzled. “What law?”

I gave a gleeful grin. “The law stating people over thirty can’t dance, well not without embarrassing themselves and everyone else.”

“You rotten little bastard.” He glared at me. “I’ll have you know I can shake my booty with the best of them.”

“Where at, a tea dance for retired gay folk?”

“Are they still doing the Blue Danube waltz in clubs these days?” He playfully whacked the tea towel across my arse. “You look gorgeous by the way, very, very sexy. I’m glad Shane didn’t allow you to go out. I’m afraid I would have had to follow you to stop other men from getting their hands on your hot little body.”

Flinging aside the tea towel he grabbed and started tickling me.

I was laughing and trying to fight him off when Shane put in an appearance and ended our fun by sharply saying I’d obviously finished clearing up so I could get off to bed. Dick looked as taken aback as I felt, but unlike me he knows when to keep quiet. I asked why.

“Is it your place to question my decisions?”

“No.” I said stiffly. “I’m sorry. May I read or watch television?”

“No.” He observed me for a moment, his face as hard as granite. “You’re a self— centred, petulant, wilful, badly behaved young man. You don’t deserve any privileges.

Get out of my sight before I decide to take a cane to your backside.”

Startled and made tearful by the harsh threat I hastened to obey. I undressed and got into bed, lying wakeful.

Dick was first to bed and I turned into his arms complaining bitterly about my treatment.

“You’re well out of favour, Gilli. Shane’s had enough. You pushed too far tonight. He’s going to rein you in.” He hugged me. “Tread carefully for the next few days. Be extra polite and keep your head down.”

It was sound advice. So I’ll never know why, on being asked next day whether I had any restaurant preferences for dinner, I said, yes, I’d prefer to go to one where I could drink wine with my meal. The stupid facetious remark cost me dear.

Shane declared it to be a clear indication I was still bearing a grudge over my punishment. He’d warned me what would happen if I continued to gripe and bellyache. He was going to show me the real meaning of being hard done by. To cut a long story short, or we’ll be here till next Easter and I’ve still got a Smarties egg from this year to eat, that’s exactly what he did.

What followed was absolute hell. I did indeed feel hard done by, ending up in frustrated tears at least once if not several times a day.

I learned that anything and everything could be a privilege if your dominant wishes it to be, and therefore anything and everything could be withdrawn.

I was not permitted to read, watch television, or listen to music. I was barred from computing and running. I was not allowed to leave the house at will. I had no freedom of choice over what clothing I wore. He chose and set out my clothes for me each day.

He determined my bedtime.

I was not allowed to have sex either with them or the solo variety. I couldn’t help myself to biscuits or any other treats. I had no freedom over where I sat in the lounge of an evening. If the television was on I had to sit on a chair facing a corner so I couldn’t see it.

I wasn’t allowed to use their Christian names. I had to address them as Daddy at all times. I wasn’t allowed to join in conversations. I couldn’t leave a room or go to the toilet without asking permission, by text when they were at work.

Shane dictated what jobs I did and the order I did them in, leaving a checklist each morning. He set lines and essay tasks that had me bored almost out of my mind.

The regime eased off after about five days if only because enforcing and supervising it was as tiring and time consuming for him, as it was hard for me.

Privileges were gradually given back though alcohol remains withdrawn and while for the most part I’m learning to be philosophical about it, there are moments when resentment resurfaces. So far I’ve handled them well enough though undoubtedly it’s going to be something that will continue to challenge me.

As Dick said, being in a relationship where you relinquish aspects of personal will isn’t easy and it doesn’t always feel natural or pleasant. Sometimes you just want to quit the whole damn thing and get yourself a regular boyfriend instead of a Daddy, or in my case, two Daddies, with a cane in their cupboard.

That said, while vanilla is my favourite flavour of ice cream, I prefer something more exotically spicy in other areas of life, even if the spice sometimes burns a little too hot for comfort.

It would be a shame to let these chapters fade out without a scene theme playing in the background, as in the film, based on the book, never to be made of this boy’s life. So, indulge the houseboy and his film fantasy and imagine you can hear Miss Lisa Stansfield singing ‘All Around The World.’ Come on, it's easy. Loosen up and let yourself go. Get the song up on YouTube and whack up the volume.

I’ve chosen the song for no other reason than it reminds me of a happy moment when Shane and I were perfectly attuned and on the same wavelength.

The moment came about when we were having a break from working on converting the drive from gravel to brick. Dust streaked and sweat sleeked we were taking a breather from toil and had gone into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a biscuit.

The song was playing on the radio. Shane made a comment about liking Lisa Stansfield and how the song brought back memories of the late eighties and early nineties when it seemed to blast from every building site radio.

In a moment of playfulness he turned up the volume and taking me in his arms waltzed me around the kitchen, while singing along to the lyrics. In doing so he gifted me the memory of a moment I wouldn’t exchange for all the world’s riches, nope, not even a vineyard of the finest grapes and a set of matching crystal glasses to pour the finished product into. I had stars in my eyes and a lift in my step for days afterwards.

I sought out a copy of the album featuring the song. From time to time when the age gap between us is telling and we’re at odds again I listen to the track. It transports me back to the day he danced me around the sun soaked kitchen. I picture his handsome face alight with laughter, his beautiful eyes sparkling. I remember his strong arms about me and recall the effortless way he whirled me around the room, while singing about searching the world looking for his baby. He found me. I was his completely, then and always.

Shane often grounds and fetters me, in more ways than one, but there are moments when he gives me wings and allows me to soar in his air stream. Such moments are exhilarating and though rare are worth waiting for.

Take it away, Miss Lisa Stansfield, you rock, lady…
chapter fades out to ‘All
Around The World.’

I think I’m getting a cold, either that or I’ve got a touch of hay fever. I’ve done nothing but sneeze all day and my eyes feel itchy and gritty. I’m not usually susceptible, not like poor Shane. He gets terrible hay fever, which doesn’t sweeten his disposition any. Dick and I live in mortal fear of the pollen count going up because you can bet your life it means our ears will be chewed and our arses mauled, and not in a fun way, until it goes back down again.

I got a bit of a shock tonight when mum emailed me a link to a news item in her local online rag. It was about a bloke charged with possessing indecent images of young children on his computer. I did a double take when I saw the photo and read his name. I knew him. He was a teacher at the school I used to attend, a biology teacher. I remembered him well. I liked him, most of the kids did. He was good with teenagers, easy going and fun. He made us laugh.

I can’t recall him being in any way inappropriate with us. He didn’t feel us up or flash his cock at us. There was nothing at all to suggest he was a paedophile, but then again what does suggest a paedophile, or a psychopath or rapist? Their very ordinariness allows them to get close to their innocent victims.

I felt a deep sense of disappointment and something almost akin to guilt that someone I had liked had been charged with such a crime. Perhaps he thought looking at images wasn’t as bad as actually touching kids, but it is, because the children concerned were victims of abuse to which he contributed as surely as if he had touched them. He betrayed and failed them and I’m sure he knows it. It’s horrible stuff on so many levels.

The weekend was a mixed bag. Saturday was nice, but Sunday was a pain in the proverbial. I had one of those multitasking attacks where I felt compelled to do a ton of things simultaneously: prepare and cook lunch, catch up with emails, chat with Lee online, run around after their lordships.

Sunday lunch paid me back for my lack of attention by being a complete failure.

Gordon Ramsay would have fucked it right off the table and not in a good way.

Nothing was quite up to par. The beef had a crust on it like a black scab because I’d left it in the oven too long. The vegetables were either undercooked or overcooked, the gravy was lumpy and the Yorkshire puddings were as flat as a witch’s tit. The cooker should have been arrested to stand trial for crimes against food. The men folk, spoiled beings that they are, had a jolly good moan about it.