Gilliflowers (5 page)

I was right. She told and I got into trouble. I got a long lecture from Shane, and from Dick too. It was shameful to speak to a lady guest in such an inappropriate and vulgar manner, no matter what the provocation, and to then throw wine at her was beyond the pale.

Shane ordered me to apologise to her. He also reminded me he had a spare key to Leo’s house and he wouldn’t hesitate to take me there and give me the spanking of my life if I treated her in anything less than a respectful manner for the rest of her stay. He punished me with lines. One hundred of them to be written that day: manners maketh man.

He must have had words with her too because when I apologised she accepted without murmur. A kind of truce came into effect between us. We didn’t speak any more than we had to, but when we had to we were formally polite and civilised.

I presented my glazed ham for Christmas Eve dinner, serving it with new potatoes and salad. It was met with general approval and compliments. Penny claimed she had not put it out at the party because there were already enough meat dishes on the table and a good buffet should consist of a balance of foods. She couldn’t resist adding how well her salmon had gone down. Dick bless him said all the food had been delicious and I was to be commended for all the hard work I’d put in.

The rest of Christmas was pleasant enough, but I was glad when the day came for her to mount her broomstick and fly away home. I was tempted to buy a fresh salmon and tie it to her car roof rack in the hope it would attract the attentions of some brutish seagulls big enough to carry her out to sea. Common sense prevailed. I didn’t fancy greeting the New Year with glowing rear globes.

I was indeed stricken by the dreaded lurgy yesterday, but not to the extent poor Dick was. He had the all dancing all singing variety, or to be graphic the all shitting all sicking variety. I felt sick and I had stomach pains and loose bowel movements, but that was it. I still feel a bit off colour and haven’t felt much like eating anything other than handfuls of Rennie (the indigestion tablets not Reny the man I hasten to add. I wouldn’t so much as lick him if he were smothered in top grade Russian Caviar) Shane remains hale and hearty. He has the constitution of an ox. No stomach virus would dare infect him not without his written permission and a signed tenancy agreement.

I was due to visit my mother today, but decided it would be best for me to steer clear until I’m certain I’m over this bug. I don’t want to risk passing it on. Her immune system has enough to cope with. We chatted on the phone for a while instead and she sounded chipper. Frank is taking her on a mini break next week to London to see the Tutankhamun Exhibition at 02 and also the Chinese Terracotta Army Exhibition at the British Museum. She’s really looking forward to it and I don’t blame her. Those are two exhibitions I’d love to visit, truly awesome pieces of history. Dick and Shane are also interested. There’s talk of organising a trip down south. Hopefully talk will progress to action.

The weather is better today, no rain and minimal wind, but still cold. I made utterances about going out for a run this morning, but decided against it after clocking the look Shane gave me over the rim of his coffee cup, no words, just a look. I can’t lip read but I can certainly read eyes, especially Daddy eyes.

His beamed a clear statement. ‘Go running while you’re unwell only if you wish to incur my deepest displeasure and have my boot make contact with your foolhardy arse.’ Makes sense I suppose and anyway I wouldn’t really have gone. I just like to keep Shane on his toes and remind him of his duty towards his boy. It makes him feel all big and butch and me all cared for.

I gave him a hug and kiss to show I was totally obedient to his will, which makes a change I know. I’ll never win the BDSM Confederation’s International Sub of the Year contest that’s for sure. I’m too mouthy by half. I’d fall at the first hurdle, the one where Masters have to herd a pack of gimp masked subs into a metal pen using only hand signals and whistles. I’d still be running around yapping like a rabid pup while all the other subs were hanging obediently from their ankle chains and slavering around the sides of their ball gags.

Once the men folk left for work this morning I cleaned all the bathrooms and the kitchen like a man possessed. I was worried in case the virus that caused the stomach upset was loitering around waiting to strike again. My eyes watered with the bleach and disinfectant fumes. I had to open all the windows. I detest the smell of bleach. No matter what scents the manufactures claim to disguise it with, such as lemon or lavender, it still reeks like plain unadulterated bleach. Thankfully I don’t smoke. One strike of a match and the whole place would have gone up as the fumes ignited. I’d have been the first gay houseboy to orbit earth’s atmosphere, thus causing outcry from homophobic astronomers and giving rise to a worldwide BOG movement - ‘Ban Orbiting Gays.’
Red Alert:
houseboy rant coming up.

Certain folks do love a new cause to be ‘anti’ about when it comes to us GLBT

people. They don’t want us to have the same legal rights as other folk. They don’t want us to be priests, or to marry or to adopt children or in fact to be happy or fulfilled in any sense whatsoever. They want us to live out our days in guilt, fear and confusion. They want to condemn us to a life of segregation and searing loneliness, and they see themselves as ‘good’ people. God save us from such good people is all I can say. They’re the antithesis of goodness.

Anyway, he said, jumping off his soapbox and wiping the froth from his mouth, I’m going to sort out all our socks this afternoon and give them some marriage counselling. What is it about socks? They simply can’t form lasting relationships.

They don’t stay as a pair for long. They’re always splitting up. Dick had a right old sulk and strop this morning (though he preferred to see it as a legitimate complaint to the Household Manager) because he claimed he had a drawer full of socks without partners and it would ruin his reputation for sartorial elegance if he went to work wearing odd socks.

A good rummage in Shane’s drawers soon located one of the wanton hosiery, a

slutty sock nestling cosily where it shouldn’t have been. I swear I sort them all into the appropriate drawers, but sooner or later they end up doing the equivalent of wife swapping and hopping into another bed. They’re real swingers are socks.

I’d best go and do something appropriate in my capacity as Household Manager.

The men folk tend to finish early on a Friday. Can’t have them waltzing home to find me loitering over a hot computer. I like to give the impression I work solidly from dawn to dusk with no distractions.

It’s been the usual kind of Sunday so far. We slept late. I made a cooked breakfast after which the boyfriends retired to the lounge to argue their way through the Sunday papers from front page to back page from politics to sport. I went out for a run and worked up a healthy sweat. I then came back and showered making the mistake of bending over to retrieve the soap. Dick was there immediately, naked and rampant. I didn’t mind. He’s been a tad grumpy lately with one thing and another so it was nice to have him back to his usual oversexed self.

By the time his lust was slaked the water was running cold and I was in danger of developing hypothermia. I swear to God he’s one of the few men who can have multiple orgasms without losing tension in his rod. His balls have a Tardis quality.

They look a normal size on the outside, but inside they’re vast chasms holding enough love juice to fertilise an entire planet. It’s seldom our Dick runs out of jism. No dry humping for him. If ever the valve controlling his sperm release fails and he goes off half-cocked then I’m afraid it’s curtains for all of us. We’ll all die in a semen tsunami.

So why has the resident sex maniac been grumpy and off his oats? Well, stomach upset notwithstanding Dick has a bit of a downer on his business partner Reny lately.

He keeps going on about wanting to expand the company. Dick doesn’t think the company is ready for expansion, especially not on the scale Reny envisages. Things escalated yesterday morning when Dick went for his usual round of golf with Reny only to find himself
coincidently
introduced to a potential investor and possible partner in the company. He wasn’t chuffed at being put on the spot.

Shane and I were enjoying a bit of a pet and snuggle on the couch when he arrived home. We almost shit ourselves with fright as his car screeched furiously onto the drive. You could hear the gravel spraying up as he braked. It certainly put an effective brake on our libido.

Dick has an essentially calm and patient personality, but like most of us he has moments when temper gets the better of him. After slamming the front door almost off its hinges he headed straight for the drinks sideboard in the dining room. Shane got up and followed asking to be enlightened as to what the problem was. Dick ignored him in favour of topping up a tumbler with a good slop of ten-year-old malt whisky (if you’re into product placement it was Glenmorangie) Worse, he countered a sharp observation that whisky wouldn’t make any better of whatever was bothering him with an equally sharp “I don’t require a recitation of AA fucking platitudes, Shane. I just want a fucking drink, if that’s all right with you of course?”

In a twinkling Shane wasn’t Shane anymore and Dick wasn’t Dick. Daddy coldly told Richard that having a drink was perfectly all right by him. He then turned to me.

“Be a good lad, Gilli, and make Richard a cup of tea while he and I have a little chat.”

This houseboy didn’t need to be asked twice. I left closing the door behind me as Daddy let Richard know he wouldn’t tolerate being spoken to like that under any circumstances. It was a short sharp mainly verbal reprimand and afterwards, while sipping his tea and holding me as a comforter, Dick talked out his grievances.

In Shane’s opinion Reny’s wife Angela is partly to blame for his expansion

obsession. She’s always conniving and trying to influence the way the company is run. She has fantasies about being the wife of a worldwide business Mogul. He told Dick to stand his ground and not be swayed into taking the company further than it was yet ready to go. Expansion was desirable, but only in the right circumstances. I added my wisdom to the pot by exampling Dick and Shane’s company of two being ripe and ready for expansion to three in the form of sweet little me.

Shane harrumphed and said my addition to the domestic company just went to

prove even seasoned board members could risk ruination by misjudging a situation. It was hard to be offended by his words seeing as he was smiling as he said them. I might choose to be offended at a later date when IEM is out of bona fide things to be mindlessly fucking hysterical about.

We’re having a late Sunday lunch with Leo and Mike today. Thankfully their

chain and pain pal, leather clad Jak, won’t be there. He’s away at some unicycle and juggling convention. Yes, such things do exist. Unicycling is big business. Nut jobs the world over like nothing better than gathering together to ride their wheel while juggling their balls. Apparently world champion unicyclist Connie Cotter will be at this convention. What a thrill eh? No disrespect to Miss Cotter of course.

I wonder what contest category Jak will enter? The BDSM Ball Gag and Butt Plug Class perhaps - watch in wonder as Jak mounts his unusually saddled unicycle in a way never seen before while tossing his balls hard and high. Those in the front row will be well advised to have an umbrella to hand.

I must shift my bottom. Shane is bawling for me. It sounds urgent. Let’s hope Dick’s ball valve isn’t malfunctioning causing the lounge to be awash in waves of foaming man cream. I’ll have to call out the coastguard to come rescue us.

If I don’t get my hands on my booky wook soon there’s going to be trouble. It was my Chrissie pressie and I want it back. The book in question is the autobiography written by Russell Brand and whimsically and with typical eccentricity entitled ‘My Booky Wook.’ Eileen gifted it to me for Christmas after I mentioned I wouldn’t mind reading it. It’s a good read too, judging from the few chapters I’ve actually managed to peruse without the wook being purloined by Dick or Shane who initially turned their noses up at it (oh, no, not Russell Brand, he’s too gay, even if he isn’t) Dick took it to work today. He actually took it to work and he didn’t even ask (hands on hips in righteous indignation) I was fuming, fizzing and generally rather annoyed. I felt moved to call him on his mobile communicator to remonstrate. He said I was a possessive little bastard and he didn’t hiss and spit and rant and stamp when I hijacked his reading material. Yes, but at least I usually waited for him to read it first.

By way of making me shut up whinging he graciously apologised. I should think so too.

I’m a fan of Russell Brand. He’s mad, bad and unapologetic. I enjoy his clever flamboyant style, plus he’s got a sexy arse. He tells a good story though you have to wonder, given his personality, how much is essentially true and how much is grand poetic licence and sweeping imagination. Not that it matters because like I said he tells a good story and he carries you along with him.

I’m laying full claim on Russell tonight. The only one he’ll be going to bed with is me, and there’d better be no reading over shoulders from one half of my better half and no interjecting from the other half. Though when it comes to Dick you have to expect some interjecting, he just can’t help himself. I’ll make sure there are plenty of tissues and wet wipes to hand, and whatever else he interjects on. Bless him. If he were a tomcat we’d have had him neutered by now to prevent him impregnating every pussy from Land’s End to John O Groats. Britain would be awash with billions of furry little kittidicks.

I watched Jamie Oliver’s show about the horrors of the poultry industry last week.

What an eye opener. We humans are expanding in numbers and making too many demands on a world of essentially finite resources. We need more and more and we want to pay as little as possible and there you have the gateway to cruelty. Food manufacturers don’t much care what conditions an animal is reared in as long as it helps fulfil demand and turns a profit. Living creatures become merely ‘things’ to be manufactured, consumed and the remains disposed of in landfill sites. I was sickened to see what misery some of those poor birds live in. Death must come as a welcome relief.