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Wednesday November 1st 2006. Dick’s involved with some big design project at work at the moment. He’s both excited and stressed over it, which is kind of good news and bad news as far as Shane and I are concerned, because when Dick is excited and stressed he tends to use sex as a means of de-stressing, which is fine, we all have to find a way of coping with life’s stresses and sex is a fairly major constituent of our relationship anyway, so hey, the more the merrier, but, and it’s a big but, at least Shane’s is, mine is quite pert and dinky, there are limits. Shane reached his late last night when he told Dick that he was literally fucking killing him and enough was enough and if he wanted anymore he’d have to retire to the bathroom with some pornographic literature and spank his own insatiable monkey, as he was going to sleep, and, to my utter relief, he gathered me protectively into his arms, so was the cub. For a horrible panic stricken moment I thought he was going to leave me at the mercy of Dick and his overcharged and rampant prick. I’m not kidding, the man has had a permanent erection for days and he’s not afraid to use it, he can out fuck a field full of young buck rabbits. I’m ten years younger than him and I pride myself on my stamina, but still, like Shane, or so the rumour goes, I’m only human and it’s getting to the point where I’m afraid to bend over if Dick is in the room, his cock has the same attributes as a homing pigeon, its brain coordinates are locked onto its loft and it returns there at the earliest opportunity and at record speed. Dick wasn’t too suited about being given the brush off and made some comment about old men and Viagra. Shane smoothly invited Dick to accompany him downstairs to the study to discuss taking no for an answer with grace. The invitation was gracefully declined and the comment about Viagra even more gracefully retracted. We slept and I made sure I stayed close to Shane. This morning Dick’s sex hormones were in full control of the vehicle once again and before Shane had even blinked the sleep from his eyes he was making overtures, which were duly served. Once Shane had escaped, it was up to me to serve the beast. Dick had me in the bedroom, then again in the kitchen. Just as I thought I’d got him sated and safely out of the house and on his way to work, the front door re-opened and the homing prickgeon was back. My dusting schedule looked to be doomed. Taking off his jacket and unzipping his jeans he said very apologetically, “I’m so sorry honey, but I’m desperate, I’ll crash the car if I don’t unstiffen this gear stick. The presentation’s tomorrow, so bear with me, I’ll be fine after that.” So, I helped him de-stress and unstiffen and got him out of the house and into his car and on his way once more and then I locked, chained and bolted all the doors so he couldn’t get back in again. I used to fantasise about being a sex slave, but it’s fast losing its appeal and I’m beginning to fantasise about being a Cistercian monk who is also a eunuch. Shane absolutely insisted that Dick accompany him to a gym and swim session at the health club this evening in order to work off some of his energy. Poor Dick, he hates the gym, he went off looking as if he was about to be executed. I’m not sure it’s the wisest plan to be honest, all those men sweating and grunting could well inflame Dick’s stress driven sex hormones still further and no one will be safe in the showers. I can only imagine that Shane has got him safely locked into the chastity device, on seconds thoughts I hope not, it excites him at the best of times, I wouldn’t want to be in the same room when it was unlocked while he’s in his present state of mind. Roll on tomorrow’s presentation and the return of a much calmer Dick. Friday 3rd November 2006: Eileen’s mother died this morning. Eileen had given her breakfast, they’d chatted for a while and for the first time in days Rose said she wanted to get out of bed and sit in the chair by the window because it was such a lovely morning and she wanted to look at the garden. So, Eileen helped her dress and settled her in the chair by the window and Rose had smiled and told her she was a good girl and reminded her to feed Billy (the cat that’s been dead for about six years) As Eileen washed up the breakfast dishes she got what she could only describe as a premonition and raced back into her mother’s room. Rose was dead, her eyes fixed on the window, a photo of her son, husband and daughter on her lap; she’d obviously taken it from the table by the bed. Eileen said she had a smile on her face, as if she were greeting someone who was looking in at the window. Eileen called the doctor, who confirmed what she already knew, then she called the priest who offered prayers and blessings and finally the funeral directors and they came and took the body away. I can’t get over how calm Eileen was as she told me. She said her mother had been ready to go for some time and that her death had been a good one, a peaceful and dignified release and though she would miss her, she was glad she’d gone to meet with those she loved at last. I should have comforted Eileen, but she ended up comforting me, I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. I felt really embarrassed afterwards, but she just smiled and said I was a sweet man and that Rose had thought so too and I wasn’t to be sad for her, because she had lived a long and mainly happy life. Eileen is staying over at a friend’s house for a few days while she arranges her mother’s funeral. I told her to contact me if I could help in any way, though God knows what use I’d be. I felt depressed after Eileen had gone. I went up to the den and sat on the window ledge looking down into the garden. The sky was blue, the sun shining, the lawn lush green, patterned here and there with the amber and red of autumn leaves and it was all so still, like a photograph and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get my head around the concept of being ready to die and leave the blue greens and amber reds behind forever, to still life and to become nothing but a photograph in a frame or album. It seems utterly terrifying to me that you get to some point in your life and you think, right, that’s it, I’ve had enough, and I’m fucking off this mortal coil forthwith. I mean, what do you do, send the grim reaper an email: Dear Mr Reaper, my soul is available for harvesting Friday next, anytime from ten onwards, please, wipe your feet on the way in and leave your scythe in the porch. I’d like an easy death please, no pain, no mess, just a view through the window at what I’m leaving behind. Your Truly, ready to snuff it… Where do you go when you die, what does it feel like to pass from life to death, where is Rose now, is she really with those she longed to meet again, or has she just gone out of all existence? I used to believe in God, but then I used to believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy, I was ever a gullible lad. Finding out that Santa didn’t exist was a great shock to me, as it must be to any lad of 19 who has his illusions shattered so cruelly (Lie detector says NO) okay, I admit, I was a bit younger than that. The point is I wanted to believe, in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and God, but while I now know for definite that the first two were fabrications, I’m not so sure about God. I guess that’s where faith comes in, the faith of a child to believe in Santa, the faith of an adult to believe in God, maybe faith is what makes something real. Maybe Rose had believed enough to create her own afterlife, maybe that’s the reward of faith, a kind of magic carpet that takes you some place you want to go and finds you reunited with whoever you want to be reunited with. I wish I had faith, real faith, not fear induced panic prayers. The day I admitted to myself that I wanted to sleep with men was the day that faith became a problem for me. The choirboy lost his innocence and finally faced up to life without Santa Claus. It’s hard to maintain faith when you’re gay; at least I’ve found it so. Whatever I do is a sin according to those who claim to speak for God. To stand any chance of redemption, according to some, I would have to renounce my sexuality, my entire being, I would have to leave Dick and Shane and live a lie, live forever in denial without love. I wouldn’t need to die to go to hell; I’d be living it. How do you separate God from man’s doctrinal system? Maybe the humanists have the right idea, they claim not to believe in God, but maybe the things they believe are closer to who or what God is really meant to be, you live your life to the best of your ability and you strive to live a good life and not damage the lives of others? Ah well, who knows, not me, that’s for sure, I make a better houseboy than I do philosopher, though that’s not say all my corners are dust free. Last Christmas I bought Eileen an Eva Cassidy CD, it seemed to suit her age group, and fortunately she really loved it, so apparently did Rose, particularly this song. I thought of it today after Eileen had left and I looked the lyrics up, they’re actually rather lovely, and to my amazement were written by Sting, he of Police fame, I kind of thought they were of older origin. It made me wonder whether they reminded the two women of some aspect of their own lives and the love of their lives? Fields Of Gold: You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of barley You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we walk in fields of gold So she took her love For to gaze awhile Upon the fields of barley In his arms she fell as her hair came down Among the fields of gold Will you stay with me, will you be my love Among the fields of barley We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky As we lie in fields of gold See the west wind move like a lover so Upon the fields of barley Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth Among the fields of gold I never made promises lightly And there have been some that I've broken But I swear in the days still left We'll walk in fields of gold We'll walk in fields of gold Many years have passed since those summer days Among the fields of barley See the children run as the sun goes down Among the fields of gold You'll remember me when the west wind moves Upon the fields of barley You can tell the sun in his jealous sky When we walked in fields of gold Tuesday November 7th 2006: I penned a poem today, it was heartfelt, deep, emotive, and could almost have been Shakespearean in its style, barring one small detail: it was a right pile of shite having more the cadence of a limerick than an epic poem. Poetry, so they say, is a dying art form, and no fucking wonder, say I, cos it’s rock hard to do. Of course part of the trouble is that modern poets are at a distinct disadvantage to the famous poets of yesteryear who had consumption, starvation, rank poverty, terrible warfare and a far shorter lifespan than we do these days and it’s a well-known fact that good poetry comes from trauma, tragedy and lack of indoor plumbing. Plus, I bet Shelley, Shakespeare and Lord Byron and suchlike didn’t have two Tops breathing down their necks and demanding to know when dinner would be ready. As far as Dick and Shane are concerned I sometimes think that the only poetry that exists for them is the poetry of the physical, food, sex and work, if they can’t eat it, shag it or turn it into hard cash they’re not interested. Talking of the boyfriends, I fell out with them a bit last Friday night on account of Eileen’s mother. Neither of them knew Rose as such, they knew of her through me mentioning her, but that was all. Being out at work all day they don’t really know anyone in the avenue that closely, so I suppose I was being slightly unreasonable to expect them to be as upset as I was. Shane patted my shoulder and said it was sad, he was sorry, but she’d had a good innings. Dick gave me a hug and said it was sad, but we all had to die sometime, and that was it. They were more interested in what was for dinner. I told them it was dead chicken, but not to worry, it didn’t mind as it had had a good innings and it had to die sometime. They exchanged a look and a slight face pull and went off to shower and change. In the end we didn’t actually have chicken, it flew away, well, sort of. Being in a distracted frame of mind, I’d forgotten to turn the oven on, the part with the chicken in anyway and I’m afraid I took the opportunity to vent my upset at their lack of upset by losing my temper, but in so doing I like to think I fulfilled a dream once held by the chicken while it yet lived, i.e. to achieve sustained flight, because on discovery of my gaffe I booted the oven door closed, opened the back door and released the deceased and featherless creature back into the wild. It flew gracefully through the evening air for a good fifty or more yards before making a slightly less graceful landing on the shed roof where it splattered its stuffing. I then went out for a short walk, it would have been longer, but Shane collared me before I reached the garden gate. Dick was inclined to be sympathetic in the circumstances and he said he was sorry if he’d appeared in any way insensitive to my feelings regarding Rose. Shane said he appreciated that I was upset, but he would have preferred me to express it via the spoken word rather than via sign language as chicken chucking was not a form of communication he recognised under any circumstances, not now, not ever, and after making me retrieve the chicken from the shed roof before every moggy and rat in the locality honed in on it, he put me over his knee and thoroughly heated the seat of my jeans. Actually, for him, that was pretty lenient, I’ve been bare bottomed paddled and even belted for lesser displays of temper. Shane does not really do tantrums in any way, shape or form. Dick is more tolerant, I suspect because he might sometimes feel like flinging one himself, but has a modicum more self-control and sense of self-preservation than I do. I was very aloof with them for the rest of that evening; they had to work bloody hard to get back in this remote houseboy’s affections. In Dick’s case forgiveness was granted when he raised each of my hands in turn, placing a tender kiss on the back of them followed by one on the end of my nose, it’s very hard to stay huffy with someone who kisses you on the nose, especially when they have such beautiful kind eyes. In Shane’s case, forgiveness was granted when he came angling with a large bowl of Ben and Jerry ice-cream and two spoons, one for him and one for Dick with which they fed both themselves and baby…me. What can I say; I’m an easy catch for men with phish food. It’s Rose’s funeral tomorrow. When, as a kid, I sang in St. Joseph’s Choir, well, it wasn’t actually the choir of the saint himself, him being dead for hundreds of years and who knows if he was even musical, I mean as far as I recall he did woodwork not singing, no, it was rather the choir named after the church that honoured him, I sang at many funerals, but none of them were of people I had known personally. Tomorrow, for the first time I’ll be attending the funeral of someone I actually knew, someone I talked to, smiled at, laughed with, felt empathy for and consequently the flower decked box in front of the alter won’t just have an impersonal kind of ceremonial awe surrounding it. I’m kind of nervous about it and anxious as to whether I’ll say the right things to Eileen and even just nervous about stepping inside a church again, it’s been a few years since I lit a votive candle. Saturday 11th November 2006: I hate fucking toasters, not that I ever have, fucked one I mean, this houseboy simply does not get off on sticking his cock into a live electrical gadget that toasts things, like electrodes on nipples it’s just a bdsm too far, however, this houseboy did stick a knife into a live electrical appliance that toasts things and as a consequence his dick might not have gotten toasted, but his arse certainly did and it was Dick who did the toasting. Yes, Dick gave me a good hiding this morning and it was the evil toasters fault. Oh all right, I admit, it was actually my own fault and I deserved the spanking he meted out. Have you ever had one of those totally moronic moments when your brain just isn’t in gear and you do something so stupid that, if you survive, makes you blush and cringe whenever you think of it? No! Shit, so it is only me then. Oh well. What happened was that I was making breakfast for Dick and I’d slipped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and turned it on (not sexually you understand, I’m just not its type) and was waiting for it to pop up when Dick got up to get himself a refill of coffee from the percolator that stands near the toaster. The toaster has been a bit iffy lately, I think it needs cleaning inside, and when it went off, it went off half cocked leaving one slice of bread wedged and scorching, so, without giving it a second thought or even taking a second to switch off the power supply, I picked up a knife and stuck it into the toaster to spear the bread, only I speared the element instead. There was an almighty flash and the resultant power surge caused the toaster plug to whiplash from its wall socket and thud into Dick’s mug, not his facial mug I’m very thankful to say, but his coffee mug. He was left standing in a pool of hot coffee amid china shards clutching the mug handle, his mouth still agape, as he’d been in process of raising it to his lips to take a drink when the three-pin thunderbolt struck it. With hindsight I shouldn’t have laughed, I really shouldn’t. It was just that it all happened so fast and the look on his face was so; well, utterly comical, that I couldn’t help it. To be fair to self my laughter was partly hysteria, as I’d gotten one hell of a fright when the plug erupted from its socket. I do that sometimes; laugh when it’s really not at all appropriate, I think its called inappropriate response syndrome. I soon stopped laughing though, because Dick, who had also gotten a hell of a fright, wasn’t amused at all, in fact he was furious with me and not only because his shirt and jeans were spattered with coffee stains. I found myself sprawled arse up across his knees with my shorts around my ankles as he berated me for being a reckless, thoughtless little idiot who had absolutely no common sense and who could easily have been fatally electrocuted. He also pointed out that if the plug had hit him and not his coffee mug it could have hurt him quite badly and he saw nothing in the situation that warranted any kind of amusement. His lips gave up speech long before his hand gave up toasting my buns, hand then gave way to the hated wooden spoon and I gave way to tears and a plea for mercy, which was finally granted when the temperature of my bottom drew level with that of the surface of the sun. Fortunately for me, Shane wasn’t at home; he set off early this morning to pay his father a visit. He called at lunchtime to say he’d gotten there safely and Dick, to my mortification, told him how I’d brutally stabbed the toaster with a knife and I got another good bawling out. Having two Tops isn’t always fun you know, they tend to gang up on you over certain things, still, at least Dick always gives me a cuddle after discipline. Shane is staying over with his dad tonight, so I’ve got Dick all to myself, which is nice, we’ve done what Shane never allows us to do if he’s at home, we’ve ordered both Chinese and Indian with a side order of chips and a pizza and we’re going to mix, match and eat it in bed while watching a dvd and quaffing cold beer. I’m quite proud of having taught Dick how to slob out properly, Shane is a just a lost cause when it comes to slobbing. Tuesday 21st November 2006: I haven’t felt much like computer journaling lately, for a number of reasons, one of them being that I’ve had a heavy cold and it played havoc with my concentration and thought processes, I could barely write a coherent shopping list never mind construct a sentence, funny how a cold virus can dry up your creative juices. Dick supplied me with sympathy and cuddles and Shane supplied me with a thermometer that you insert into the ear to take your temperature, which saved me from having Dick use a rectal thermometer every five minutes, kinky sod that he is, I wouldn’t mind, but it wasn’t my temperature he was taking and he wasn’t even ill (Lie detector says NO) Okay, that’s not exactly true, he didn’t take his own temp, though he did express an interest in taking my temp via the rectal method, which I nipped very sharply in the bud by feverishly expressing an interest in super gluing the cheeks of my arse together if he even tried. He said considering what else I’d had up there I was being a great big baby, I said I didn’t care and he wasn’t sticking a glass tube up my bottom, hence Shane settling the matter by buying the ear thermometer, which showed that I was a very poorly houseboy with a very high fever. Someone has enquired as to when the story of Dick and Shane’s holiday homecoming will be finished; to be honest I’d forgotten about it. That’s the trouble with writing an autobiography, everyday can be a story in itself and when something comes up, it’s really easy to be sidetracked into concentrating on writing about that and leaving other stuff half done. One of the events I got sidetracked by recently was Eileen’s mother’s funeral, which had a profound affect on me and I had need to write about what happened that day. Click here for A Life In The Day Of Wednesday. I’m back to having relative freedom of the computer, though if one Daddy or another says “Off” then off I get. So, when will the Homecoming story be finished, er, when it’s finished I suppose, watch this space as they say. :-) Well, I suppose I’d better go check on dinner, it’s just Shane and I this evening, Dick is working late and then going out for dinner with his business partner, rather him than me, the man is a prick and not in a good way. Thursday 23rd November 2006: Shane was in one of his pedantic moods this morning. He’s fussy at the best of times and makes no apology for it, but occasionally he’s even more exacting, nit picky and niggly than usual. He started as soon as he woke up. The alarm clock went off at six as per usual and as per usual on cold, dark mornings I ignored it and snuggled closer to Dick intent on snatching a few more minutes of bedtime before I launched into the daily grind. Dick, as per usual began feeling me up as a prelim to sex, which Shane nipped in the bud, sharply telling Dick to control his lustful urges and me to get my little arse out of bed as I had a job to do. He didn’t sound in any mood to be argued with so I got my little arse out of bed pronto. I’d just cleared the door and hit the landing when I heard Dick very sweetly say to Shane: “what’s the matter my love, got grit under your foreskin this morning?” Shane didn’t reply, not in words anyway and I pulled a face as I heard the unmistakeable sound of a hand dealing a hard smack to a bare backside. The cup I put out for Shane’s breakfast coffee was stained, he said, he wanted another one, that was stained too and I got a ticking off for not washing them efficiently enough. I muttered that the stains were due to the fact he liked his coffee strong enough to use as a wood stain and it was a wonder it didn’t eat through the fucking china never mind fucking stain it, to which he sternly retorted that I should watch my language and that the stains would pose no problem if I used sufficient washing up liquid combined with a bit of elbow grease. Dick, obviously not feeling like loitering in bed, came downstairs earlier than normal and was told by Shane that his hair was too long, the fringe in particular needed trimming as it was getting in his eyes and he was to see to it at some point during the day, was that clear? Dick, having been addressed as Richard didn’t argue he just nodded. They both left for work at the same time and I went with them into the hall. Shane stooping to pick up his laptop, which was standing near the foot of the stairs, suddenly paused and leaned forward saying, “What’s that on the stairs?” I said, “I can’t see anything.” I could, I hadn’t at that point hovered the stairs for a few days, but I wasn’t going to admit to it, not with him in his present mood, he’d probably have me keelhauled for being a slutty, but not sexy slutty, houseboy. Shane said: “look, it’s fluff, and hair.” Me, leaning forward with him and peering at the stair in question: “Where?” Shane, stabbing an impatient finger, “there, on the stair, it’s definitely hair.” Dick jumped on board by suddenly breaking into a little tap-dance and warbling tunefully: “a little hair with clogs on, well I declare, going clip-clippety-clop on the stair.” Shane, stunned, stared at Dick as if he’d taken leave of his senses. I almost collapsed laughing, it was just so fucking deadpan funny the way Dick did it, and the look on Shane’s face, my ribs were aching as I staggered around the hall, tears of mirth running down my cheeks. “Oh come on Shane, you’ve got to admit,” Dick grinned and made a cheeky little Shirley Temple style curtsey, which made me laugh even more, “it was rather good, for an off the cuff improvisation.” For a moment I thought Shane was going to lose it and actually smile, his mouth twitched, but he recovered and instead cuffed both of us smartly up the back of the head, telling me to clean the stairs properly in future and Dick to get out to work before he sorted him out. I watched from the door as they walked to their respective cars. Dick winked and blew me a kiss, and then looking slyly over his shoulder at Shane, did a little shuffling little facsimile of his tap-dance in the gravel as he opened his car door. Dropping his laptop Shane made a move towards him and Dick hastily threw himself in the car and locked it. Shane’s eyes swivelled in my direction and still laughing I slammed the door closed. I made sure I did the stairs down properly; with Shane in bloodhound mode I didn’t dare stint on any of my duties today. I’m going to try out a new recipe this evening, ginger cashew chicken, it’s a bit of a faff on, but it sounds nice and if it works well it might sweeten Shane’s mood, he usually likes dishes with cashew nuts in them. Actually, I think I’m getting a headache, I can feel it slyly creeping up on me like a mugger. I hate having a headache, it always makes me feel slightly panicky, what can I say; I’m a great big baby, plus with having epilepsy anything involving my head tends to play to my insecurities and anxieties. I look up symptoms on the internet and scare the living shit out of myself by reading worst possible case scenarios and convincing myself they apply to me. I’d better get some paracetamol, try to bud nip it. |
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