Gilliflowers (49 page)

I started the moment Mike and Jak headed for home. I demanded Dick design a tattoo for me. Of course he said no. Cue a houseboy tantrum. I accused him of double standards. He claimed to disapprove of tattoos. If he really disagreed with them then he shouldn’t have turned personal designer for juggling Jak and he should decline to complete it.

Dick said it wasn’t his job to protect Jak and what Jak did with his body was his own affair. He said tattoos were part of his persona, but not part of mine. I didn’t need body modification and he didn’t want to see it on me. The design was a favour between friends and what had been promised could not be un-promised. He couldn’t resist adding that he knew Jak would use a professional artist and engage in a proper aftercare routine. He said I was overreacting and he knew why and it was silly. There was no need for jealousy.

No need perhaps, but it didn’t stop me feeling so. Since when had Jak moved up the ladder from acquaintance to friend? I reckon he’s after getting his feet under our table, probably in place of mine. I said so to Dick, at which point he lost patience.

Slapping a gagging order on me he dragged me off to bed before he
fucking strangled
me with his bare hands.

I declined to be placated, petted or fondled. Dick got the cold shoulder that night and the next morning. If he wanted sex he could have the self-service variety.

The sketch had been good enough, but the finished design was stunning. It would have been churlish for me to say any other. I gave the artist his due and told him it was a beautiful piece of work, though couldn’t resist adding there was something major missing from the saddle. Dick played into my hands by asking what and I told him: a fucking smug prick riding it. He thanked me for the compliment, whacked me for the comment and warned me not to wind up Jak when he called to collect it. I said if he gave it to me I’d get a taxi and go shove it through Jak’s letterbox to save him the journey over. He issued a warning: he would wallop a rainbow onto my backside if I so much as touched it.

Leather boi rolled up on his motorbike on Sunday afternoon. I suppose it made a change to see him on two wheels instead of just one. He had to park on the street outside because I’d forgotten to unlock the gates so he could access the drive. I was all for keeping him outside and offered to slip the design through the bars on the gates to save him the trouble of walking up the path to the front door. Dick told me to let him in or so help him God he was going to wring my bloody neck.

Of course Jak adored the design and heaped much sugary praise upon Dick. I stood behind him making fingers down throat gagging motions, getting the evil eye from Dick in return. He stayed for ages. I had to make the bastard a cup of coffee. I withheld the biscuits though. He wasn’t getting his paws on my custard creams.

I then had to sit listening to him bragging. He can’t open his trap without self— promoting. Not content with being a BDSM string up boy, tattoo canvas and circus performer he also has a degree in applied mathematics. Bloody overachiever. I’m not jealous, much.

Once he’d left Dick made a move on me, but not a sexy one. I tried to leg it, but his legs are longer than mine and he collared me no bother. He slapped my arse and then tickled me until I was shrieking for mercy. He said he was going to tell Shane what a fucking pest I’d been all weekend. He did too.

I went down town this morning and bought a stack of tacky temporary tattoos from the Goth shop. I’ve covered my arms with an assortment of skulls, daggers, hearts and flowers. I’ve got a skull and crossbones over both nipples, a gecko heading down from my navel to my groin, tribal tattoos on both thighs and red lips on my left buttock reading kiss me. Can’t wait to see Dick and Shane’s faces tonight when I greet them wearing nothing but a thong and body art.

Dear Diary,

I’ve had what philosophers refer to as an excremental kind of day…absolute shit in other words. For a start Shane was decidedly un-cuddly this morning, like a grizzly bear with its balls caught in a trap. I understood why. He has the unpleasant task of informing some contractor workers he has to lay them off early from a project at the end of this week. His mood began to build last evening. He gave Dick a good lick with the razor edge of his tongue when he walked into the lounge and discovered the telly ‘blaring away to itself’ while Dick played golf on his psp. The golfer was sharply reminded there were people out of work who wouldn’t be able to afford the luxury of wasting electricity this winter. If he wanted to play on the psp then he could at least turn the unwatched television off and save energy.

I copped it this morning because I was fingering and picking at a spot on my chin.

I almost soiled my undies with fright when he pulled my hand away from my face and slapped it, my hand that is not my face. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he’d stopped at my hand, but he also dealt my thighs a couple of eye watering slaps into the bargain. He said he was sick to the back teeth of hearing me whine about the state of my skin when I contributed to the problem by constantly poking and picking.

Once he’d gone to work Dick gave me a consoling kiss and cuddle. We agreed

that Daddy is dangerously parental at the moment and it might be wise to get our flak jackets and hard hats out of mothballs and tread carefully.

After getting me into bother with Daddy the evil spot bled like a bastard when I shaved. It took me ages to stem the flow. I used more sheets of Andrex than a hyperactive Labrador puppy.

To cheer myself up I decided to hit town and look around the shops at all the Christmas goodies. It didn’t stop at looking. I bought a boxed set of Band Of Brothers DVD’s along with the book to put away for Christmas for Shane. He intended to watch the series running on telly, only with one thing and another he hasn’t got round to it and we keep forgetting to record it. I bought some Davidoff aftershave for Dick.

It’s the one advertised by tasty Ewan McGregor. It’s called Adventure. Dick likes a bit of adventure, especially of the kinky variety. I’ll parcel it up with a copy of the gay man’s Kama Sutra. We can have fun trying out some of the more adventurous positions and improvising on them.

My wallet ended up being a contender for a Weight Watcher’s award for most

impressive pound loss. I couldn’t leave it so thin and starved so I called in at the bank to replenish it. I put my shopping bags on the floor while I put my card in the machine and got out some cash, eighty quid, which I then put in my wallet. There’s a shelf near the cash machine for you to write out cheques and payment slips and for some reason instead of slipping my wallet straight into my pocket I set it on the shelf while I bent down to pick up my bags. It got nicked. Some fly bastard lifted it in the twinkling of an eye. I couldn’t believe it. I was so pissed off at being robbed in a bank and not via account charges for once.

At least I was in the right place to sort out cancelling cards, my personal bankcard and the one for the household account. I also had the hassle of contacting Barclaycard to cancel my credit card. I reported the theft to the police, getting a statement of the bleeding obvious in return. I should never have left my wallet unattended, not even for a second. You don’t say!

The policeman taking my statement was a gloomy bugger. He said it was unlikely they’d catch anyone. He doubted anything of use would show up on the bank CCTV.

I’d been the victim of chance theft. I’d given someone the chance and they’d taken it.

Oh thank you Inspector Morse. I hope he never gets called out to negotiate with a potential suicide on a rooftop. He’ll tell them the world is a bad place and they’d be better off out of it.

You’d think the day could only get better. Don’t be silly this is Gilli the houseboy the gods like to piss upon. Not content with having me penalised at breakfast and then robbed, they decided by way of a grand finale to shower me in blood and guts. Lucky, lucky me!

There are hordes of pigeons in town. They scavenge around the bus stop areas looking for food scraps, of which there are many because people are dirty sods and too idle to put their muck in the bins provided. (Don’t get me started on litter) The pigeons strut around the pavement and the road, but being sensible fly away when a bus approaches. Not so today.

A pigeon, perhaps distressed at the downturn in the economy and the prospect of less fast food scraps, decided to commit suicide under the wheels of a bus. Or maybe it was an old pigeon and it couldn’t face lingering in a NHS nursing loft being ‘cared’

for by teenagers serving out ASBO’s. It didn’t fly away as the bus pulled in. It sat there in the gutter and the wheel of the bus went over it. It popped and its innards spurted out. I was in the front of the queue and my trainers and the bottom of my jeans were splattered with intestines. Some people laughed. I wasn’t amused. On top of having my wallet pinched it was too much.

I didn’t get on the bus. I walked home in my blood stained trainers. Poor pigeon.

There must have been something wrong with it for it not to move. I can still hear the disgusting popping sound in my head.

The men folk were not impressed that I’d left my wallet so carelessly unattended.

I was soundly scolded in stereo. Shane said he had a good mind to ground me because I wasn’t fit to be let out on my own. What a fantastic day! Ah well, as the saying goes, into each life a little pigeon guts must fall.

On a lighter note the men folk’s reaction to my tattoo rebellion on Monday was fun. Shane tried to hide his amusement by grabbing me and giving my arse a couple of mock stingers, warning: ‘if that bloody mess doesn’t wash off you’re in deep bother, boy. You look as if you’ve been attacked by a graffiti gang.’ Dick couldn’t do anything for laughing at first, especially when I started shaking my booty and flexing my muscles. He reckoned their objection to tattoos in my case was well founded.

They do not suit me. They prefer their boy’s body art free. It didn’t stop him following the instruction on my left buttock and he didn’t stop there.

The fuzz phoned yesterday morning to say my wallet along with my credit cards

had been found in the town’s multi-storey car park and handed in. The thief had only been interested in a quick cash fix. The cards were useless seeing as I’d cancelled them, but I still appreciated the honesty of whoever handed them in. That’s life I suppose. You get shitty people and nice people. Maybe whoever nicked my money is nice most of the time, but had succumbed to temptation because they were out of work and desperate for cash. I’ve been hard up and desperate for money more than once so I know what it feels like. I never nicked anyone’s money, but I confess to some shoplifting now and again, food items, which was naughty I know, but I was famished.

Moving swiftly away from past crimes. I collected my wallet this morning. It was the first gift Dick gave me and I was glad to have it back. I was pleased to find my photo of the boyfriends still inside. I like having a photo of them about my person. I know they carry one of me as well as each other in their wallets. It confirms there are bonds of affection between the three of us.

After much thought I’ve decided there are many degrees and stages of love,

affection is one of them and perhaps it’s the most important. Affection can turn to love and passion and conversely love and passion can come full circle and give way to a gentler sustaining affection. The houseboy philosophises yet again. If there were such a thing as a PHD in Applied BAB (bollocks and bullshit) I’d get one with ease.

I heard my first Christmas advert on the radio this morning. It drove home that the season of glitter and tinsel is almost upon us. I must report feeling down at the prospect. What’s the point of the party season when you can’t party with full gusto?

Christmas for me this year is going to be all about watching other people have a good time.

We Three Kings, or to be more accurate two kings and a prince consort, are going to Leo’s for the great Yule feast. It’s all arranged. We’ll be staying over as part of a house party for a few days. I’m not looking forward to it. I said as much to Shane. He said not looking forward to going Leo’s is a stubborn point of principle with me, rooted in misplaced jealousy. He tried to claim I’ve grown to quite like Leo, but just won’t admit it. I told him a man of his age was entitled to his delusions. He let me live.

Of course I can’t drink and what is Christmas without a glass of champagne or

wine or a nice flagon or two of Stella. I’ll be stuck with sipping boring soft drinks or revolting non-alcoholic beers and wines.

My revels despondency was made worse by a text from Lee. It’s left me with a

dilemma in the form of an invitation to go out on the town with him and Dave tonight.

I haven’t seen Lee since his engagement party. As predicted our paths are separating more and more. We chat online and text each other from time to time, but his life revolves mainly around Bethany. She’s in Liverpool on some work related training course at the moment. Lee has decided to make the most of the freedom by going out with Dave and some mates for a few weekend bevies, hence the invite, but it’s a long way to go when you can’t have a drink.

There’s nothing worse than being the only non-drinker in a group. I hate it. When you’re teetotal there comes a point when all the jokes go over your head because what’s funny when you’re sober is different to what’s funny when you’re drunk.

Drunks are notorious for taking offence if you’re not amused in synch with them and tend to want to punch you. I don’t want to fall out with my friends nor do I want to cramp their style.

If I do go Lee and Dave will pester me to have a pint, and there are only so many excuses I can make. I’m scared I won’t have the balls or willpower to resist their well-intentioned pressure. If I succumb I’ll get a severe caning. I don’t want a caning. The last one is still fresh in my mind. My backside wasn’t just surface sore for days, it ached muscle deep and the marks took an age to fade. I’ll probably end up making some excuse and staying home tonight.