Gilliflowers (6 page)

In the aftermath I tried to convince Shane to let me keep hens. I argued our back garden was plenty big enough to accommodate a small henhouse. We’d always know the source of our eggs and Sunday roast and revel in the knowledge of its superior welfare and happiness before having its neck wrung.

Shane’s enthusiasm was notable by its absence. He argued it was a stupid idea. I could buy organic free-range goods by all means, but no way was he having hens tearing up the garden and shitting everywhere, bringing down the value of the property. The neighbours would be up in arms and signing a petition to have the hens removed and us along with them, and anyway, knowing me I’d make pets of the bloody things and kick up a storm when it came to necking one for the dinner table. I wouldn’t be content with them being in the garden either. I’d be bringing them into the house and offering them a seat by the fire when the weather got cold. Honestly, I don’t know where he gets his ideas from sometimes. The subject was closed. Grumpy papa had spoken.

And so ended my romantic idea of being Gillibran Brown the humane chicken farmer. I do tend to buy organic free range meats whenever I can, money being no obstacle. I suppose I’m lucky I can do that. I can remember what it was like to be so hard up I really didn’t have the luxury of wondering or caring about where the meat I ate came from or how it had been treated beforehand. Conscience comes at a cost and not everyone can afford to heed conscience.

Leaving aside chicken welfare, Shane has been a tad difficult to live with this week. I’ve had my ears scorched a couple of times for displeasing him. There’s something ailing his dad, at least according to Penny, only she can’t quite put her finger on what it is and he’s denying anything is wrong. She’s been bleating in his ear non-stop since she went home after Christmas, Shane’s ear I mean. He no sooner settles down to relax on an evening than she’s on the phone. He was a bit short with her last night, which is no mean feat for a man of his height, and she hung up on him.

In the spirit of helpfulness I opined that Penny interfered far too much in her father’s life and her constant attempts to organise him got on his nerves. She needed to be told to stop bullying, butt out and let him live his life on his own terms instead of hers.

Shane’s response was to locate a large flea, which he then inserted in my ear. I was told he didn’t appreciate me using the situation as an excuse to slag off his sister, as it was helpful to no one. I took offence at having my intentions misconstrued. After begging his pardon for
fucking breathing
I marched out of the room slamming the door behind me.

Shane is not tolerant of people with a door-slamming propensity. In his opinion slamming the door because I didn’t like being reprimanded showed an unacceptable level of disrespect. Being an old fashioned kind of Daddy there is only one way to deal with disrespectful boys in his book and that’s to put them over the knee for a sound spanking. He’s an expert spanker, ambidextrous too. When his right hand tires he uses the left until it recovers, which is bad news for my bottom.

Dick gave me a comforting cuddle afterwards while pointing out I had rather asked for what I got. He claimed I leap at any chance to have a bite at Penny. I suppose he’s right. I can’t seem to keep my gob shut when an opportunity arises to put the verbal boot in. I’m blinded by my dislike of her.

It’s Shane’s birthday today, but there’s no celebration. He headed off to see his troublesome papa straight from work. He’s staying overnight and coming home tomorrow. We’re having a proper birthday celebration for him tomorrow evening, with a few friends round for a dinner party.

Well dear diary I must leave you. Dick is complaining about me spending too much time with you. He’s demanding my presence in the lounge and on the couch. I think he fancies a game of sexy Cluedo and I’m the body he has foul play plans for. I suspect I’m about to be bludgeoned to death in the lounge with a trouser truncheon.

Suits me. I’m looking forward to having him all to myself in bed tonight.

I was disappointed to wake up this morning and find we were surrounded by some rather fine weather. The sun was bright and if not warm then at least not cold. It smiled down benevolently, highlighting the pale green shoots of various flower bulbs pushing their way above ground, as if spring were proudly saying, ‘look, I’m on my way to banish winter.’ Far from being pleased I felt like complaining to the met office for failing to divvy up the promised rain and gales. Why? Because, as Dick said when I groused to him over fresh breakfast coffee and croissants, I’m a selfish possessive little bastard that’s why.

If it had been raining heavily enough to float an ark and blowing a force nine gale, as promised, he wouldn’t have headed off to the golf course to smack little white balls with a long hard pole. I didn’t see why he couldn’t stay home and smack my balls with his pole.

His solution was to suggest I caddy for him, he’d love to have me alongside. I declined saying I’d rather perform a sex change op on myself using a pair of rusty shears. He is hell to caddy for, a ruthless slave driver who makes Shane look like a little pink poodle in comparison. Honest, I’m not kidding. Dick undergoes a terrible transformation once he gets on the green with a golf club in his hand. He’s a fucking demon. All gentleness vanishes and even his hair gets harder. He’s Jekyll and Hide, and it’s usually my hide that suffers. So no, this houseboy refuses point blank to caddy for Daddy.

It’s coming up to half past noon so I’d better make a move. Dick will be back from conquering the golf course and expecting lunch any time soon and I’ve got to make a start on preparations for dinner this evening. I’m trying a new recipe, partridge with Moroccan spices and roast vegetables, it sounds nice, but is a bit finicky to prepare. Dick and Shane personally killed the birds I’ll be using on the last shoot they went on with Leo, so I suppose you can’t get more organic and free range than that.

At least the poor things had a relatively good life before they were shot. I’ve also got flowers to buy and arrange for the dinner table. If I were straight I’d be starting to worry I might be gay, what with the cooking and flower arranging.

I had the oddest experience last night, really, I’m not kidding it was very, very queer. I was reading my Booky Wook in bed when who should stride into the bedroom but Aragorn from LOTR’s. I stared in dumbstruck silence as he withdrew his magnificent sword and roared the order “I BID YOU STAND MEN OF THE

WEST!” I didn’t need to be bidden twice not with him dripping sexy sweat and pheromones all over the bedroom rug. He could be Lord of my ring any day of the week, even if he did have filthy fingernails. Consequently I stood so hard and so fast I was in danger of piercing my navel with my own particular sword.

We were really getting it on, he’s a fabulous kisser is Viggo, when two men suddenly charged into the bedroom claiming to be magistrates. They bellowed I was under arrest for being a Molly. To my horror it was true. I was a Molly boy dressed in an elaborate frock, wig and heavy makeup. I was gobsmacked. When the hell had I turned into an eighteenth century transvestite and where the hell had Aragorn disappeared to? I bet he wouldn’t have abandoned his lady elf as fast as he abandoned this fairy prince. Next thing I know there’s a rope around my neck and I’m in the process of being hung for sexual depravity and crimes against God and Nature.

Just as I thought I was going to die, Dick and Shane, my hero knights, arrived on scene and…woke me up demanding to know why I was whimpering and writhing around like a madman. Yep it was all a dream, but what a vivid one. I watched The Return Of The King yesterday afternoon and then City Of Vice last night and so obviously my sleeping brain improvised a scenario based on what I’d exposed it to.

After watching the latter, which last night centred around the Molly Houses of London in the eighteenth century, I have to say I’m grateful I was born a gay man in this century and not in any other, certainly not then when love between two men was a hanging offence. We have some way to go as far as total acceptance of homosexuality is concerned, but at least we’ve made some strides, though it terrifies me to know how easily and gladly some would return to those cruel and ignorant times. The program upset me so no wonder I dreamed about it.

A certain kink-fuelled gleam crept into Dick’s eyes this morning, as I described the latter half of my dream and the outfit I’d been wearing. It caused stirrings of unease within me, which deepened as he went on to say he’d bet I looked very pretty as a Molly boy. I have such a lovely face and pretty eyes and a pretty mouth, when it isn’t snarling and swearing. It would look sweet with one of those fake beauty spots stuck next to it.

I did some prompt bud nipping, stating that no way was I EVER donning a frock or faux mole in real life, not for Dick, not for anyone. No disrespect whatsoever to the transgender community. I’m simply not a high heel and makeup kind of lad, though I confess to wearing black eyeliner and black nail varnish when going through a Goth phase when I was about fourteen and fifteen.

My credit card statement came in yesterday, which is one reason I indulged in a spot of fantasy film watching, anything to take my mind off what appeared to be a fantasy account balance. I’ve shoved it in a drawer along with some magic beans in the hope it will disappear or the beans will turn into golden eggs that I can flog to pay it off.

Shane’s birthday celebration didn’t go quite according to plan. In fact it looked set to be a complete non-event. I was gutted after all the preparations I’d made, but being a sensible and laid back kind of chap I took it in my stride and let it go with a gentle smile and a cie la vie shrug of my shoulders. (Lie detector says NO and then breaks into sardonic laughter) Oh all right. I may have taken a mild huff over it. I am as I am.

Nothing barring death and resurrection as somebody completely different is ever likely to change me. It turned out fine in the end, more than fine. It was rather grand in its way. I’ve written up a report of proceedings.

On the day of Shane’s planned birthday dinner everything looked set to go well. I was revved up and raring to go, determined to make his celebration something to remember for the right reasons, unlike last year when I cocked it up by behaving like a prat. Gillibran Brown, boytoy, houseboy extraordinaire, and all round cute guy was going to prove he could be the very epitome of elegant and mature sophistication.

Dick arrived home from his Saturday morning golf session glowing like a het bloke who had just lost his virginity in a harem and all because he had triumphed at filling a succession of holes using club and balls.

Grasping me in a bear hug he lifted me up and kissed me declaring he was ravenous, but not for lunch. My mind was fixed on things other than sex, but being a good and submissive boy I pencilled him into my busy schedule, allocating him a five-minute slot to do what a randy man has to do. I thought setting the kitchen timer might put him off his stroke and allow me to get on with my preps without being interrupted by coitus, but it didn’t. The ticking down of minutes fuelled his libido.

Dick enjoys a challenge. Sex within a time scale was a kink as yet untried and he went at it with gusto, determined to beat the cock, or do I mean clock, probably both.

In less than a minute I was debagged and bent over the kitchen table with a gobbet of goose grease left over from the Christmas festivities standing in for lube. No way was Dick wasting precious time by going upstairs to get the ID Glide Lubricant. It was goose grease or nothing for this boy’s bottom. Thank heaven the River Cottage chef - him with the tongue-tripping name (Huge Manly Bits, or something similar) wasn’t hanging around watching me being stuffed. He’d probably have chucked a few herbs and a squeeze of lemon juice into the sausage meat mix. It certainly put a whole new perspective on being goosed.

Dick gave a roar of conquest as the timer went off and so did he. By way of crisping my skin he gave my bottom a victory slap as he pulled his cock out of me. I was done to perfection and basted in fooking juices. To be honest it wasn’t the most romantic or comfortable shag I’ve ever had. Dick went at it so fast I feared the friction might ignite the goose fat and roast our love spuds and sausages, sure they’d taste good, but they’d be useless forever afterwards.

After washing and applying soothing salve to my thoroughly goosed botty I re-dressed and made Dick a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee by way of lunch, while writing a mental memo to myself:
check to see if Sainsbury’s sell sex suppressants
. I then got on with the business of preparing Shane’s birthday dinner, safe in the knowledge Dick’s carnal lust had been slaked and I could safely bend over to retrieve any cutlery I might drop.

Turning on the radio to lend musical ambience to my endeavours I caught Seal singing ‘Kiss From A Rose’ and sang along, while marvelling that an endothermic vertebrate mammal could produce such fine vocals and all while balancing a beach ball on its nose. (Lie detector sighs heavily, but declines to comment) It’s a haunting song and in my case made more so because when I was younger and first heard it I was convinced the lyric was about a kiss from a rose on the
grave
rather than on the
grey
. I still insist on singing about grave roses rather than grey ones. It’s funny how some things stick in your mind and refuse to shift. Besides, I think my spectral version has even more unfathomable resonance than the original.

Exhausted from ball games Dick settled on the couch to watch horse racing on the telly, but soon fell asleep, a clutch of betting slips in his hand. It’s a hard life being a kinky oversexed posh person with a penchant for gambling.

By half past four that afternoon I had everything pretty much under control. The partridges and veggies were spiced Moroccan style and ready to slip into the oven.

The potatoes were boiled. All I had to do was reheat them, drain them and turn them into delicious buttery mash. I’d improvised (cheated by buying) a starter of chicken liver and mushroom pate to be served with crusty bread. I also had my signature dessert dish of raspberry hazelnut pavlova chilling sweetly in the fridge. I planned to stick a couple of celebratory sparkler candles in it and present it at the table with fanfare. I also prepared a rather impressive cheese and fresh fruit board.