More Fun with Dick and Shane
Memoirs of a Houseboy
January 2007-to-December 2007
Gillibran Brown
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Gillibran Brown 2011
Houseboy Works
http://www.gillibran-brown.com
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Seasons come and seasons go, but one thing remains the same: my heart belongs to Daddies, Dick and Shane. Xx
Tuesday 2nd January 2007
I’m feeling a bit depressed tonight. Actually, suicidal might be a better definition of my mood. I put Shane’s 18ct gold Rolex Cellini strap watch, a fortieth birthday present from Dick, through the washing machine this morning. I didn’t do it on purpose you understand. I’m not into machine-washing timepieces for kicks or anything like that. It was an accident. The buckle on the strap broke when Shane was putting it on this morning. He brought it downstairs and laid it on the kitchen table and told me to take it into town to the jewellers that Dick bought it from in order to get the gold buckle repaired or replaced. Failing that, he wanted a completely new Rolex strap fitted, an authentic one mind, no bit of mass-produced plastic tat.
I was already planning on going into town in order to get my hair cut, I had an appointment at one o clock with the exclusive Holga, Danish God of hair to men and women alike, so decided I’d take Shane’s watch into the jewellers after that. In the meantime I got on with my usual jobs, stripping the bed and gathering up all the towels to wash.
I was whisking the swiffer mop over the utility room floor, happily humming away when I heard an ominous clunk from the washing machine. Words cannot describe my horror as I spied Shane’s beautiful timepiece whirling round the machine’s port window. I’d dumped the bedding on the kitchen table while I gathered tea towels to add to the wash. Obviously the watch had got picked up with the washing.
The fact that the watch was a gift from Dick made me feel even more mortified. I bawled my eyes out as I read the loving inscription on the back after rescuing it from the machine. There was water under the glass and so it stood to reason that there would be water in the mechanics of the thing. Of course if Shane had any consideration for my feelings he’d have owned a waterproof to forty thousand leagues under the sea, quartz movement, chunky divers watch, instead of a beautiful, elegant dress watch with a delicate mechanical movement. He’s just plain selfish sometimes.
I hastened into town taking the drowned watch with me. The jeweller was pessimistic about it being salvaged; saying that at best it might need a new movement. He’s sent it off for an inspection and repair estimate. Shane’s been busy with work this evening and he hasn’t mentioned the watch and I haven’t had the guts to bring the subject up voluntarily.
Dick keeps asking if I’m okay and I keep saying I’m fine. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I feel awful. Shane loves that watch. I’ll have to put it right somehow, but Christ knows how much it’ll cost. The jeweller told me that the watch is, was, worth around two and a half grand. I don’t have that kind of money, and anyway the sentimental value outweighs the commercial. What a balls up.
Wednesday 3rd January 2007
I couldn’t settle to sleep last night. I ended up getting on the men folk’s nerves with my tossing, turning, heaving and sighing. I was unanimously voted into the single room to toss and turn alone. I got up at five and went on the computer in the study to see if I could find a site specialising in the trade of body organs. One of my kidneys must be worth the cost of a gold Rolex, surely?
Shane asked about his watch at breakfast this morning and my bowels just about went into spasm. I explained that the jeweller couldn’t mend the buckle and had sent the watch to the Rolex service centre to be fitted with a new strap. He accepted it without a problem, simply telling me to let him know when it was ready and he’d write a cheque for it. He then unnerved me by watching me intently over the breakfast table, like he was reading my guilty thoughts or something.
To make matters worse he was nice to me. He asked what was on my mind and called me his darling…the sadist. I’m sure he must know what effect that has on me. It nearly set me off crying. I mumbled something about a headache and he ordered me to take a couple of paracetamol and go back to bed and rest until it passed off. I thought about confessing the disaster to Dick, but just couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I’d ruined the commemorative gift he’d given Shane.
Maybe a standard service will put the watch right. I hope so, otherwise failing the sale of one of my kidneys I’ll have to go on the game and become a male prosser to make a bit of extra cash. I’d consider making a porn movie except I’d be worried about Dick coming across it on the Internet. I can’t see him or Shane being too chuffed to be confronted by a film entitled ‘Horny Houseboy’ featuring yours truly being gang banged while clutching a feather duster. Though knowing Dick he’d want to re-enact the scene with him and Shane playing the gang.
In all honesty I don’t think I could work in the sex industry. I really enjoy sex, but I have a feeling that enjoying sex and selling sex are very different things. I had a friend who played the midnight cowboy for a while. He started selling sex when he was eighteen and moved to London to go to university. Living in a squalid student shit hole wasn’t to his taste, nor was slogging his guts out for a pittance. He wanted money and he wanted a lot of it as fast as possible and he liked fucking, so why not put that to work? I'm pretty sure he still does it from time to time because I know the online name he used when he was cruising for clients and I still see it occasionally on gay.com, usually on a weekend. He used to say that the early hours of Saturday and Sunday morning were the best times to log on because the guys who hadn’t pulled in the clubs were still horny and high on whatever they were high on and prepared to pay for a good cock servicing. He could command between two and five hundred quid a session, depending on services rendered.
I know he was planning on doing a post grad course after he got his degree, but we fell out of touch after that. I assume that with his education he had at least a fair chance of getting a good job so I don’t know why he’s still selling his arse. Maybe he does it as a means of supplementing his income when he needs that bit extra, or maybe he’s saving up for something special, or wants to pay off a big mortgage before his age and looks render that kind of money making less feasible. Flesh has a limited shelf life and buyers mostly want it when it’s young and fresh.
I suppose I should shift my arse and do something constructive. I’m meant to be taking the Christmas tree down today. Shane has been making ‘it’s about time’ noises since New Year’s Day. I told him that it was bad luck to turf out the tree before Twelfth Night, but he doesn’t have a superstitious bone in his body. This morning he finally laid down the law. The tree was dusty, it was shedding needles and he’d had enough of it. He wanted it out of the house before he got home from work, or it would be bad luck for me, because he would dish out a hefty measure of CP.
I love decorating the Christmas tree, but I must admit that I can’t stand un-decorating it. It’s such a chore taking all the stuff off and putting it away. It feels kind of tawdry somehow. I feel sorry for the poor tree and guilty about having used it, decking it in finery and then rejecting it when its beauty has diminished, stripping it naked and casting it out into the cold. Still, it will have to be done, or my backside will be far from cold. Daddy does not make empty threats.
Friday 5th January 2007
I finally told Shane about the watch drowning tragedy. I couldn’t stand being banished to the single room on account of being a ‘fucking nuisance’ to sleep with as guilt kept me restless. Shane said if I didn’t stop wriggling around he was going to take me to the vet and have me wormed. Actually I didn’t tell Shane in person. I text Dick yesterday at work to tell him about it and asked him to tell Shane, while profusely apologising. He phoned me and said that I was a prick and I was to slap myself up the back of the head for worrying myself into a state over it, accidents happened. He then called Shane who called me and crisply stated that if I had brains that I knew how to use I’d be dangerous. I offered to pay for the repair. He told me not to be silly and what the hell did I think insurance was for.
I must admit that it is a relief to have it out in the open. Sometimes we make problems of things that needn’t be problems. Shane was more annoyed about me withholding information from him than he was about the watch. He gave me a very pithy lecture on the subject.
Dick is away on business tonight and Shane is starting a cold and is having an early night. He’s a really, and I mean REALLY grumpy sod when he has a cold. He takes it as a personal affront and a sign of weakness. The wisest thing is to let him just get on with it and try to pretend that you haven’t noticed him sneezing and coughing. Offer him an extra strong hack or a cup of lemsip and he’ll hack your balls off. He’ll bellow for me in a moment and demand to know why I’m fucking about on the computer late at night, disturbing him, which I’ll take as his way of saying that he wants me close by. Relationships are all about reading between the lines.
Sunday 7th January 2007
It’s no good. I’ve tried and tried, but this morning I finally conceded defeat and decided that the Damien Rice CD that Penny gave me for Christmas is a pile of old misery. I like to give things a fair chance and I’ve listened to it at least ten times in the hope that it would grow on me, after all it’s been fairly well received by the music critics and if they like it, it has to be good, right? Anyway, for a brief moment this morning, upon playing it as I made breakfast, I thought I might be getting to only faintly dislike it, as opposed to hating it with a vengeance. In fact I was on the verge of almost humming along to a dirge, ‘I love your depression and I love your double chin’ when something snapped inside me and I thought, no, fuck it, or to quote one of his own lyrics, ‘fuck you’ I can’t take anymore and ejected it from the player.
Christ, I mean the guy’s lyrics have a certain originality, but everything is sung in this dragging funereal tone and while I have very eclectic tastes and quite enjoy a bit of emotive downtime in music there are limits. It must have been reviewed by a hoard of misery loving emo music moguls. The cover should carry an advisory label for self-harmers plus a complimentary pack of steristrips and instructions on how to apply them to gaping wrist wounds. I can only imagine that Penny was hoping to edge me towards suicide and out of her brother’s life. I’m afraid Damien is destined to gather dust on my CD shelves before being chucked in the charity box of no return.
My favourite Christmas present this year was one of those daft stocking filler things, Dick gave it me, and no it isn’t an anal dildo that plays ‘Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus’ upon insertion (apparently they’d sold out of them in The Christian Sex Aid Shop) it’s actually a Dalek key ring. I love it, it’s got moveable wheels and antennae and it’s great. See, I’m easy pleased I am. Diamond rings and all things bling hold no interest for this modest and cheap to run houseboy.
Shane’s cold is no better and he’s been a bit like a bear with a sore head this weekend, which is apt, seeing as he is a Bear with a sore head, and a sore foot, which I unfirly got the blame for, and no that isn’t a spelling mistake, nor am I trying to do a Cilla Black impression (we’ll have a lorra, lorra laffs luv) it’s intentional, a play on words no less, and yes that’s telling instead of showing<sigh>I must stop reading these ‘how to write perfectly’ books. In the end they kill all incentive to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Perfect technique, like perfect grammar, can end up being very boring. I’ve wandered off track now (sorry, Miss)
Getting back on track. After breakfast this morning Shane ambled barefoot into the living room in order to settle down to read the Sunday papers. Of course he had to find and step on the only pine needle that I’d missed when cleaning after taking the Christmas tree down. From the way he roared you’d be forgiven for thinking that someone had shot him in the arse with a blunderbuss loaded with pine needles.
I got into bother for shirking my cleaning duties and poor Dick got blasted for being startled. He’d ambled into the living room just ahead of the Bear carrying the remains of a mug of coffee. When Shane bellowed he got such a fright that he whirled round and not only crushed the Bear’s bare foot beneath his size ten trainers, but showered him with coffee dregs. Shane was not amused and we both got the rough edge of his tongue. The two of them then had a row about the wisdom of wearing or not wearing shoes in the house. It was an argument that Shane won hands down, and I do mean that.
I cooked a most excellent Sunday lunch today, roast leg of lamb accompanied by a redcurrant and rosemary sauce that I made myself from scratch, using fresh ingredients picked from the garden. As I picked them I was aided and abetted by a sweet little robin that serenaded me all the while (Lie detector says NO) oh all right, the robin was fictitious, I borrowed it off an old Christmas card and the sauce was out of a jar. I did take the lid off all by myself though and I also added a slug of port by way of tarting it up. The boyfriends enjoyed it and Shane fell asleep on the couch afterwards. Dick and I did the washing up and then went upstairs.
Sex was good. Dick took his time pleasuring me with the sweet, gentle consideration that always takes me back to the first time he ever made love to me, actually no, it takes me back to the second time he ever made love to me. The first time was good…fantastic in fact. However I woke up next morning not only aching from head to foot as a result of frenetic sexual activity, but also feeling terrified about what the repercussions of having sex with both my employers would be. I could barely look them in the face. I was so scared and embarrassed, fearing a humiliating dismissal from their house. It didn’t happen of course. I will write that story, one day. It deserves to be written, but not yet. I’m not ready.
Getting back to the here and now, Dick and I lay cuddling after sex and were just gearing up for a follow on session when the hall phone rang. It woke Shane up who as per usual bellowed PHONE! There are no flies on him you know, he recognises a phone ringing when he hears one and he’s not afraid to stick his neck out and say so. It didn’t matter that he was closer to the damn thing than I was. He yelled again. Dick made no effort to answer it so I thumped down the stairs shouting, “nobody move. I’ll get it, it’s no trouble.”
In the event it was one of those annoying automated public service recordings. Laying the receiver on the table I told Shane it was a man asking for him and then darted back upstairs. He soon followed. Thankfully the nap had restored his sense of humour and he let me live.
I’ve worn my Daddies out. They’re currently snoring away in each other’s arms. Hopefully they’ll stay that way for a while, especially Shane, who shortly after sexing me up said the one word guaranteed to strike fear deep into my heart and other inaccessible places: douche.
Friday 12th January 2007
I’ve been pretty much knee deep in shit all week and no, that doesn’t mean that douche man caught up with me. Dick gave me a helping hand in that respect last Monday night. Douching is actually a sensuous experience with him, whereas with Shane it’s a form of anal torture. I’d sooner push a gerbil carrying a miner’s lamp and wielding a shovel up my bottom than let him anywhere near it with a nozzle attached to a bag. Nor have I had the trots.
The shit in question, if you’ll pardon my French…not that I’m saying the French are shit or anything. I’m not Frenchophobic you understand. I enjoy a garlicky baguette and a day trip to Boulogne to pick up cheap booze with the best of them. The shit in question was more your metaphorical shit, though admittedly I did end up with a foot jammed down the u-bend of the downstairs toilet at one point. Fortunately it had just been flushed and squirted with Domestos, so fear not, there was no risk of dysentery.
Shane has had some problems at work this week, which hasn’t done much to enhance his legendary patience. Consequently he’s been a bit on the acerbic side, especially with me, acting less like a lover Daddy and more like a tetchy parent.
I annoyed him on Monday when I barged into the bathroom where he was trimming his nasal hair over the sink, almost causing him to almost perform a frontal lobotomy on himself when he shoved the tool up his left nostril. I was very apologetic, but did that save this poor houseboy’s bottom from several very harsh slaps? Nay, it did not.
I mega annoyed him on Tuesday when I downloaded some kind of Trojan virus onto the computer, as I innocently perused a site that specialised in the male body beautiful (it was art I tell you) Thereafter, mind boggling, eye popping, often stomach turning, porno pop ads would flash up along with scary messages like: the FBI, CIA, Scotland Yard and The Vice Squad are heading over to your house to seize your computer, etc. I was panic-stricken and tried everything I knew to delete the damn thing. The virus protection on the computer was useless. It just sat there and let the invader walk all over it.
Sometimes if you type HELP or similar, into google, you can find advice from people who’ve visited similar artistic sites and been stricken with similar computer beasties and who have found and pass on solutions and free fixes. So I tried a Vundofix, a Smitfraudfix and so on. Nothing helped and nowhere could I find a Shane’llkillmefix.
I resorted to doing what one should never do, when one has no clue about what one is doing. I started fiddling with the computer control panel deleting and uninstalling things in the hope I hit lucky and deleted whatever nasty viral programme had hijacked the computer. Of course all I did was further screw up the machine. By the time I’d finished interfering the only programme still in working order seemed to be the fucking virus.
Shane was absolutely livid and didn’t believe for a second that I’d downloaded the virus from an innocent site. My ears were smarting by the time he finished bawling me out. He said he wouldn’t mind, but it wasn’t as if I were deprived of sex in real life…generalised irritable nagging…I had no damn right fiddling with things I didn’t understand…more generalised and even more irritable nagging…and…irritably slaps at my backside…I could get it put right at my own expense…verbally chastises Dick for saying it could be put down as a business expense.
Dick was worried that my surfing porn sites indicated that I wasn’t sexually satisfied and asked if there was anything I’d viewed that I’d like to try? Seeing as we’d pretty much tried and regularly did what most of the sites pedalled as porn, I reassured him that I was more than satisfied, carefully avoiding all mention of a strange objects fetish site I’d come across, in case it gave him ideas about using my arse as a jar and bottle opener. Knowing him, it’s the sort of kinky thing that would appeal.
I had to get someone in to fix the computer, which cost me twenty quid before they even stepped inside the house. Of course if I’d had any sense I would have called someone in to fix it before Dick and Shane got home on Tuesday night and they’d have been none the wiser. To add insult to injury Shane made like a punishment virus and hijacked the keyboard and mouse so I couldn’t use the computer for a few days.
On Wednesday I annoyed him again when I forgot to pick up his favourite suit from the cleaners. He had an important meeting on Thursday morning and had wanted to wear it. I got a verbal roasting for that. To make matters worse I produced a foul evening meal and I don’t mean chicken or turkey. In the spirit of experimentation (in other words I couldn’t be bothered) I decided to invent a recipe and combined (chucked together in a crock pot) garlic, diced pork, chopped apple and new potatoes in what should have been a culinary masterpiece, but was in fact disgusting, not least because the pork was undercooked and squirting enough blood to qualify as an extra in a Kill Bill film.
Sir was most displeased and this houseboy’s ears tried desperately to heal over as yet another barrage of disapproval headed their way along with a warning that if I didn’t wake my ideas up I was heading for a hiding.
Standing in the kitchen afterwards, surrounded by the wreckage of the disastrous meal, I had one of those sod it moments. Throwing in the tea towel I lifted my jacket, left the mess, stealthily left the house and headed off to the Rose & Crown to have a quiet whine about my lot to the Lady Stella.
A little while later I thanked Mistress Artois for listening, kissed her goodbye, set down my glass and headed home. Shane wasn’t a bit suited about me waltzing off without a word, without my phone and without completing my duties in order to go sulking over a pint of lager. I made the mistake of rudely answering him back, i.e. I told him to get off my fucking case. As a consequence I ended up being strung from the ceiling by hooks inserted in my nipples (Lie detector says NO) okay, I admit that’s a fib. What can I say, some of the things that virus popped up on screen have scarred my innocent mind.
I might not have been strung up, but I was disciplined. Shane briskly stripped down my jeans and pants, bent me over the back of the couch and conveyed his displeasure via my disrespectful bare backside. It was a hard spanking and he didn’t stop until I was in tears. An exasperated Dick told me I was a silly immature brat and had got what I deserved, but he still took me to bed afterwards and cuddled me to sleep.
Shane and I had a small renaissance yesterday. I was duly deferential and made sure the suit he chose to wear was nicely pressed and that breakfast was just as he liked it with plenty of hot fresh coffee on tap. The bank meeting went well and for a Bear he was almost human when he came home. My enquiry of, Daddy, please don’t say we’re poor again, was met with an affectionate swat followed by a hug. I’d made a special effort with dinner and produced a rather fine curry made with goat meat that I’d bought from a farmers market in town. It was a hit and I was very proud of my first goat dish, but unfortunately it was quite strong and we all three had rather potent and pressing desires to move our bowels at pretty much the same time this morning. I believe experts (crapologists) refer to it as synchronised crapping, apparently it’s the male equivalent of an all female household having simultaneous periods. Being low down on the evolutionary scale, it fell to me to use the small downstairs loo, while Sirs Dick and Shane got the more luxurious upstairs thrones.
After moving my bowel I thought it might be expedient to open the window and allow clean air to waft in and foul air to waft out. The downstairs loo doesn’t get used that much, so the window, which is above the loo, was really stiff and I couldn’t undo the latch. I stood on the toilet seat to get a better purchase on it. Gripping it with both hands I tugged upwards. It yielded all of a sudden and I ended up losing my balance and plunging one leg into the toilet bowl. My foot jammed tight, it would not budge. I confess to feeling slightly panicky at the thought of turning up at the local accident and emergency room with a toilet attached to my lower left limb and having to endure a series of gags along the lines of are you having a piss or taking the piss. With a concerted effort I braced my free foot against the floor, and a hand against the sink and pulled…and to my relief my foot plopped free.
Relief was short lived as an ominous cracking sound reverberated around the small space. I watched in horror as a fissure appeared in the pedestal base of the toilet. There must have been an existing fault and my stomping my foot into it had fractured it. Water began to leak across the floor and in a moment of mindless panic I pressed down on the toilet, as if hoping that if I pressed hard enough the crack would heal up and stop leaking. It made it worse. I shifted the whole thing sideways, leaving it drunkenly hanging there. It could only happen to me. Shane was going to love this.
I bellowed for help in turning off the water valve. The look on the boyfriends faces as they viewed the scene was indescribable. Dick spoke first. Wafting his hand in front of his face he said solemnly, that must have been quite some fart, Gil. There was a tiny silence and then we all imitated the toilet and just cracked up. Humour rescues at the most unlikely moments. Shane satisfied his Top’s honour by clipping me up the back of the head for not having the sense to put down the toilet lid and stand on that instead of the seat.
So it’s off to Wickes tomorrow to look at toilets. I reckon between the three of us we should easily be able to install a loo without calling in a plumber. I’ve been looking on the net and there are some fairly comprehensive guides.
I collected Shane’s watch from the jewellers this afternoon. It looks as good as new and he was very happy to have it back in his possession. It cost almost one hundred and sixty quid to put right, which isn’t anywhere near as bad as I’d feared it would cost. Shane says I’m a tiresome pest who barges around like a demented Labrador pup and if it weren’t for the fact that he knew Dick would miss me he’d sell me on. He adores me really. His life would be bland without me around to put his watch through the washer, break the toilet, ruin the computer and forget to pick his stuff up from the cleaners. I keep him young.
Monday 15th January 2007
I dislike it when food refers to itself in personal terms. I’ve got a carton of fruit juice here and it says ‘please shake me thoroughly before opening me.’ I’m sitting here thinking, me, what is this me? Why do manufacturers do that? Do they think it’s cute to anthropomorphize a product? Well it isn’t, it’s sinister and it has cannibal tones. Food is a thing. It is not a ME as in: eat me before the third of whenever, stir me well, shake me, heat me. It’s just not right. Think of the effect it might have on paranoid schizophrenics. They’ll be terrified to go into Tesco for fear of hearing voices coming from the shelves instructing them to do things. What’s wrong with just printing a simple instruction such as shake before use? I shall be penning a letter to the PM forthwith demanding that the question be brought up in parliament.
It was like the clash of the Titans in our house this morning. Shane commandeered Dick’s car and Dick was not happy about it. He’s precious enough when it comes to his laptop, when it comes to his car he’s doubly so. He won’t even let me wash it. He has a bit of a James Bond fantasy does our Dick and consequently drives a dark red Aston Martin convertible. Like him it’s classy and elegant and he loves it, he’d shag it if he could. To be honest, if it came to a contest I think he’d part with both Shane and I rather than part with his beloved car. So when Shane stormed back into the house this morning shouting that his car wouldn’t start and he was taking Dick’s, all hell let loose.
Dick shot out of bed in record time and galloped down the stairs wearing nothing but his birthday suit yelling: “what do you mean you’re taking my fucking car?”
Shane: “mine won’t start.”
Dick: “have you checked the battery?”
Shane: “of course I’ve checked the battery, it’s fine.”
Dick: “call the garage then.”
Shane: “they’re not open yet and I haven’t got time to hang around. I’ve got an early meeting.”
Dick: “Give me a moment to get dressed and I’ll give you a lift.”
Shane: “I’m sorry, Dick. I know it’s inconvenient, but I’ll be working at several locations today and I need a car. Gilli will call the garage and get someone out to look at mine today and you’ll have your precious back tomorrow.”
Dick: “and how the hell am I supposed to get to work in the meantime?”
Shane: “take a taxi. I’ll reimburse you.”
Dick: “why can’t you take a taxi?”
Shane: “because I’m taking your car, Richard, and that’s final. I don’t want to hear another word of complaint from you.”
“Bloody man!” As soon as Shane had gone Dick hurled the front door shut, “arrogant bastard, egotistical son of a fucking bitch!”
He stormed upstairs cursing and swearing, slamming the bedroom door shut. I’ve never seen him in such a tizzy. Once dressed he came back downstairs, snapping: “call me a taxi.”
So I did. I said, “Dick, you’re a taxi.”
Rubbing at the smarting handprint on my left buttock I sent a memo to self…never trifle with a car-less Dick.
Dick rang me at lunchtime sounding more like the man I know and love to say he was sorry for having been sharp with me and to ask if anyone had been to look at Shane’s car. I, being the sweet boy that I am, accepted his apology saying I was used to being put upon and mistreated and yes, a mechanic had looked at Shane’s car. Sadly it needed a new part that had to be ordered and it would be off the road for at least a week if not longer. There was a stunned silence and then Dick said a week in such a pathetic voice that I admitted I was only joking and the mechanic had fixed an electrical fault in next to no time. He crisply stated that one of these days my misguided sense of humour was going to land me in real bother and I was to give myself a good slap on the arse for being a wicked boy.
He went over his car with a fine toothcomb when Shane got home tonight to make sure he hadn’t scratched it. He then duly presented Shane with a receipt for the taxi fare. Shane’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline and he asked if the taxi had taken the fucking scenic route via Switzerland? It was hysterical. Dick winked at me and whispered, ‘that’ll teach him to requisition my car.’
It’s been a nice weekend all in all. We fitted the new downstairs toilet on Saturday. It was a doddle and I’ve promised not to go paddling around in it. We then went out for dinner as per usual on Saturday night.
I was hoping to get stuck into a bit of writing yesterday. With Christmas and all I haven’t had much time to really settle down to penning the old autobiography and when I have had time the mood just hasn’t been there. In theory, writing sounds dead simple. You just sit down and do it…only it doesn’t always work like that. Sometimes even scribbling a few lines in this diary can seem too much like hard work. The problem isn’t to do with lack of events to write about. The problem is to do with finding the creative energy to put the events into words. Some days I could be involved in a robbery and high-speed car chase and I wouldn’t be able to find the right sequence of words to convey the experience. Other days I can write several chapters simply about the process of making a sandwich.
Anyway, I earmarked yesterday afternoon for writing purposes, but it didn’t come off. Shane got a morning phone call from Leo, inviting us to attend the last shoot of the season. Dick declined and I’m no fan of killing things so Shane went off alone. I made Sunday lunch and then I’m afraid that snuggling up on the couch in front of the fire, finishing off a bottle of wine, proved more tempting than lone time writing.
I’ve just been told that I’ve spent enough time on the computer for one evening and also reminded that there are unwashed coffee cups in the kitchen. The way Shane said it you’d be forgiven for thinking they were roaming renegade around the place…oh my God there’s a hoard of unwashed mugs in the kitchen, call out the Sheriff and round up a posse before they mutiny and kill us all! He’s bellowing now and threatening to stir my backside with a wooden spoon if I don’t stir it from the computer chair. I’m off. I hate being spanked with a wooden spoon. It stings like a bitch.
Wednesday 17th January 2007
It’s Shane’s forty-fourth birthday tomorrow and I spent most of yesterday and today cruising the shops looking for a gift. Not that he expects a present. He always tells me not to go wasting my money, as he already has everything he could possibly need. He says that all he needs to celebrate his birthday is the company of both his boys and a sprinkling of friends. I don’t think a birthday is a birthday without at least a small present and anyway, I want to give him something. I love him and it’s natural to want to give a gift to someone you love.
He’s impossible to buy for though. With his birthday following hard on the heels of Christmas he’s pretty much stocked up on stuff like after-shave, socks, ties and booze. Trust him to make an inconvenient January arrival into the world. I bet his mother wasn’t expecting him until at least March. (It’s no good crossing your legs, mother. I’m ready to arrive now, so just resign yourself) He doesn’t smoke and he rarely eats chocolate or sweets. He doesn’t wear jewellery, except a watch and cufflinks and he wouldn’t thank you for a computer game or anything of that ilk.
I ended up buying him a set of cufflinks. I hope he likes them. I’m still shy and uncertain when it comes to giving gifts to my Daddies. I worry in case they think it’s cheap tat. I quite like cheap tat for myself to be honest, and while looking around for a gift for Shane I came across bargains in plenty that fitted that description. I treated myself to a couple of bracelets made from natural and coloured wooden beads threaded onto leather and wool. They were fairly cheap and cheerful before the January sales started, but are totally irresistible now.
The cufflinks I bought were on sale and supposedly less than half price, down from sixty five to thirty quid. I got them from ‘Kinda Magic’ a Goth shop I often have a prowl around when I’m in town. It’s not the sort of place I’d ordinarily think to look for a gift for Shane, but I liked them the moment I saw them. They’re pewter circles inlaid with a Celtic motif in black onyx. I think they’re gorgeous and classy. They’ll go with any of his shirts and suits.
I have to confess that I’m feeling nervous about things other than birthday gifts. I had one of those mad impulse moments while I was in Kinda Magic this afternoon. The lady who owns the shop does ear piercings and I watched as she did a tragus piercing on a guy. The tragus, in case you don’t know, is that chunk or flap of cartilage just next to the opening of the ear canal. It looked really cool and before I knew it I was in the chair having my left tragus pierced. While I was at it I also had a third piercing put in the lobe of my right ear. All in all I now have six ear piercings, three in my right lobe, one in my left lobe, one in my left helix (top of the ear) and now one in the tragus.
Shane isn’t the biggest fan of body art so I foresee a conflict of interest when he cops a sken at my new ornaments. When we first got together as Daddy and boy he made me get rid of my nasal ring, which he said was quite disgusting, but at least I kept my ear piercings.
Readers of my earlier diary might also recall that both he and Dick were annoyed when I got my arm inexpertly tattooed without consulting them, especially as it infected. Dick used the back of a wooden hairbrush to demonstrate his disapproval in a way that left me reluctant to sit down for several days afterwards.
So, I’m feeling some trepidation about the reaction I’ll receive when they get home tonight. With a bit of luck, fingers crossed, and if I drug their dinner they might have a conversion and decide they love my new piercings as much as I do and perhaps even suggest a naval addition, and by that I mean a bellybutton piercing and not a sailor. Though knowing Dick he’d no doubt prefer the sailor. Over my dead body say I. This ship has enough men aboard ta very much.
I must go and do some work, can’t be sitting here all day prattling via the keyboard.
Monday 22nd January 2007
Dear Diary,
Just a note to let you know that I haven’t forsaken you. It’s just that I haven’t felt much like sharing life with you lately. Penny brought Shane’s daddy, his paternal one, the one who helped forge him in the fires of Mount Doom, to visit last Friday and then forgot to take the curmudgeonly, demanding, miserable, awkward old fucker home again. Don’t get me wrong I don’t dislike him or anything. No, I actually ‘hate’ him. To be fair she did come back to collect him yesterday.
However, silly cow that she is, she let slip that while he’d been visiting us, she’d gone in and cleaned and re-organised his house. It was now all shipshape and pristine. The old man hit the roof accusing both her and Shane of conspiring behind his back and interfering with his personal space. He was absolutely furious with both daughter and son, which was a bit unfair as Shane actually knew nothing about Penny’s plan to organise their dad’s house to her satisfaction while he was staying with us. He wouldn’t have approved it even if he had, which is probably why she didn’t tell him.
His father refused point blank to go home. God, it was bloody mayhem, with him berating Penny and her crying and saying she wasn’t appreciated. Too true, I didn’t appreciate her for one. I didn’t appreciate her not having the sense to remain silent about her premature spring-clean until she shoved him through the front door of home. No amount of reasoning, arguing, cajoling convinced him to change his mind. He was adamant he wasn’t going home.
He’s still here and frankly I’m losing the will to live. To make matters worse Shane went away on a business trip this morning. He’s hoping to be back by tomorrow night and has promised that he’ll sort the situation out then. I certainly hope so, otherwise I’m moving out.
Thursday 25th January 2007
Is it just me or has this month gone on forever? January tends to be the longest month of the year, a Tardis month, with greater capacity than is first apparent. Perhaps it’s something to do with post Christmas syndrome, you’re all busy-busy during December and there aren’t enough hours in the day, then January plods into being bringing nothing but cost-counting and glum weather. If my punctuation and grammar are even more erratic than usual you’ll just have to lump it, cos I’ve had a few bevvies and I can barely hit the space bar let alone anything smaller. I’m not so much touch-typing as taking aim and hoping for the best. I think I might actually spell better when I’m drunk, either that or I just don’t care.
It was Lee’s birthday today and he invited me to visit and go pubbing and clubbing with him and a few mates by way of celebration. So, after promising not to allow Lee’s mate Ben to tattoo any part of my body, not to have anything pierced, not to drink too much, to keep my phone with me, etc, the boyfriends signed my release papers and handed me a one day pass.
I had a brief tussle with Shane, who wanted me to wear a warm coat because it was bitter cold out. I informed him that Teesside lads did not hit the town wearing a warm coat. Teesside lads are hard lads. They go out in a snow blizzard wearing nowt but a t-shirt and jeans, and a short sleeve shirt at that, as only wimps wear t-shirts with long sleeves.
I eventually ventured out wearing a warm coat, which I left in the lost property office once Dick had dropped me off at the station. Hypothermia is more acceptable than a warm coat where I come from. If you die of exposure after a night out on the tiles the church will be packed out with mourners. People you never spoke to in your life will turn up to bear witness to what a ‘sound’ lad you were.
Talking of birthdays, my dad’s birthday was the twenty-sixth of January, that’s tomorrow. He died in January too, on the twenty-eighth, isn’t that sad…to celebrate your day of birth and not know that you’ll never celebrate another because two days later you were going to die in a car crash. Mind, I suppose not knowing is slightly better than getting a postcard with your day of death on it and a stamp saying no opting out. His best friend died with him and also his cousin. The only survivor of the crash was his cousin’s girlfriend, he’d just proposed to her, so my mum once told me in a rare moment of reminiscence. She rarely talks about my dad, so my knowledge of him is fairly limited. I suppose it must be painful for her and maybe she thinks it’s disloyal to fuck face Frank.
I really shouldn’t be writing this. I’ve sunk twenty pints of lager (Lie detector is too pissed to comment) and I’m feeling off colour to be honest. I ate some Chicken Parmesan and I think it was a bit too rich.
The night was not a huge success. I was abandoned early on when Lee got the scent of a woman, a single woman, a desperate woman and a woman whose guide dog was open to bribery from a handful of Scooby Snacks. She’ll have it back at the kennels for re-training in the morning when she sees what she wakes up with. Christ, if he performs tonight after what he’s put away there truly is a case for miracles. I watched him dancing with her and to be honest if he fucks with as little coordination as he dances, then she’s going to wake up with a cock in her ear, but at least she won’t get pregnant and it might clear away any earwax problems she’s been having.
I had planned on staying over with Lee, but once he’d pissed off with his ladylove I decided to head home. I have no recollection of the train journey, I think I fell asleep, and the taxi ride from the station is a bit hazy as well. I’m just praying that an item on the six-o-clock news tomorrow evening won’t jog my memory, especially if the Daddies are watching.
The good news from my pov is that Shane’s dad has departed this realm, not the mortal one I hasten to add, but our personal one.
Oh heck, I can hear rumblings. Either I’m about to projectile vomit or one or both of the dominant ones have sussed my return and are hastening to greet me. God I hope so, cos I don’t want to die alone with only a computer mouse and a half eaten Chicken Parmo for company and no warm coat to lend me succour. I want my Daddies (insert pathetic and drunken whimper)
Thursday 1st February 2007
The current apposite song in the soundtrack of this boy’s life is ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’ as sung by the Byrds:
‘To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn…
A time to be born, a time to die …
A time for Tax returns, turns, turns…’
Yesterday, thankfully, marked the final day for tax returns. Tax talk and consultations with accountants have been very much to the fore in our house of late. Dick has been in a state all week because the accountant that he and his business partner have used for the past year suddenly resigned leaving them with a serious mess to sort out and this tax deadline approaching. I’m not quite sure how it all works or what exactly went wrong. I’m only the pretty little houseboy, God forbid that anyone take time to explain things to me. I do know that Shane was very annoyed and not inclined to be sympathetic towards Dick and Reny. Apparently the accountant was related to Reny’s wife Angela. Shane has said all along that you never ever involve petty family in your business affairs, especially when, as it turns out, they’re of their depth and totally unqualified for the job.
Tensions rose to the point where you could barely look at Dick without getting your head chewed off. He and Shane had a couple of pressured exchanges, and not of the fun orgasmic kind. Shane offered help but was rebuffed with Dick snarling that he would sort out his own work affairs.
The worst happened on Tuesday night when Dick came home from work in a very dark mood. I’d made one of his favourite pasta dishes, but he wasn’t interested and just picked at it saying he wasn’t hungry. He might not have been hungry, but by God he was thirsty and he got stuck into the wine like no one’s business. I watched Shane watching him and I knew there was trouble brewing.
By the time Shane and I had downed a glass of wine each, he’d downed the rest of the bottle and was stating his intention to open another one. Shane said a firm no. Dick abruptly thanked me for dinner and then got up and strode out of the room. He might not have said ‘fuck you, Shane’ in actual words, but there was a definite hint of the sentiment in the way he left the room, not to mention the way he picked up the whisky decanter and a glass from the sideboard on his way out. Shane also thanked me for dinner and then excused himself. I must have looked anxious, because he patted my face and told me not to worry. I did though. I always do when there’s serious tension between my Doms. It’s a rare enough occurrence for it to still unsettle me.
I began to clear away the dinner dishes and just as I was making a start on washing up I heard the muffled but unmistakeable sound of a wood paddle making vigorous contact with bare skin. My hands started shaking and my mouth went dry. It’s horrible hearing someone being disciplined. It seemed to go on forever and my own backside clenched in sympathy. I was especially upset because I could hear Dick crying out. He’s seldom verbal when being disciplined, just little grunts and hisses (and I can only hear them if I have my lug pressed up against the door) but nothing else.
He’s even been off sex. Usually I can’t walk past him without being molested to some degree, but in latter days if I’d posed naked on the bonnet of his car with a rose clenched between my teeth and a gift bow tied around my dick I wouldn’t have been able to get a rise out of him.
In the end he swallowed his pride and accepted Shane’s offer to assist by bringing in his accountants to help sort things out for the tax deadline. I think Dick and Reny are going to place their business accounts with them in future.
Shane also tore a strip off Reny and Angela. She, along with Shane, is a supposedly silent partner or director or something in Dick and Reny’s company. However, she isn’t as silent as she’s supposed to be and tends to stick her nose in where she shouldn’t. There was a meeting in the study and I eavesdropped outside the door just for the pleasure of hearing Shane go through them like the proverbial dose of salts for their lack of wisdom, professionalism and foresight.
Best of best, afterwards when I was serving up the tea and biccies in the lounge, Shane quietly ‘suggested’ to Angela that she might like to, in the spirit of air clearing, apologise to me for having unjustly slapped my face at his birthday gathering. She did and I hesitated ever so slightly before graciously accepting it. Mean perhaps, but then she’d humiliated me in my own home in front of guests, so I felt entitled to a quick spit of meanness in her direction.
I have to report that Shane’s birthday wasn’t exactly a reggae-reggae bunting and happy cake affair, not for me anyway. It all went a bit arse up. To begin with we’d clashed the evening before and I was still feeling out of sorts. I’ve chronicled the details in a couple of memoir chapters titled ‘The Houseboy Gets Sent To The Naughty Chair’ and ‘The Houseboy And The Butterfly.’ I’ll tack them onto the end of this somewhat chatty diary entry (I’ve got my gobshite head on today)
I got a roasting for getting drunk last week when I went out with Lee. I shamed myself by being sick on the computer keyboard (it was that chicken I tell you, it was definitely off) Shane was already in ticked off Top mode when he stormed the study. Apparently I’d left the front door wide open and my keys dangling from the lock in a clear invitation to burglars to not only rob us once, but also pocket the keys and come back again at their leisure. I honestly don’t remember doing it. When he saw the keyboard sinking beneath a pool of steaming lager scented vomit he went ballistic. This disgraced houseboy was roughly bundled into bed with the ominous words: we’ll discuss this in the morning. Despite my pleas for leniency he punished me before leaving for work so I had a sore bottom to contend with as well as a hangover. As far as he was concerned the spanking he gave me was well justified. I’d been told not to drink too much and I’d disobeyed.
See, if I hadn’t got maudlin and decided to come home he and Dick wouldn’t have known I’d drank too much. I’d have done my vomiting in Lee’s flat, hopefully in the bathroom and not in his ladylove’s handbag, as I once did in Lee’s sister’s handbag. Oh my God that was so embarrassing. It was Lee’s eighteenth birthday, there’d been a party and I was staying at his house. I was rat arsed. I crashed out on the couch and woke up in the early hours feeling like death warmed up and just knowing that making it to the loo was a lost cause. Instead of heaving onto the living room shag pile (I didn’t want to upset his mum) I grabbed the nearest receptacle, which happened to be Cass’s handbag. I even tidily closed it again afterwards and went back to sleep. The screams when she discovered that her bag was full of sick were terrible. Lee thought it was hysterical, but I was mortified. I bought her a new handbag and she did actually forgive me and still seems to like me.
I didn’t set out to drink too much, but when you’re trawling around pubs with a group intent on celebrating, you end up being bought drinks you’d rather not have, but feel obliged to consume. And then of course, if you’re the only gay in the straight man’s supermarket, you end up sitting in a corner drinking even more, while your mates are prowling the aisles swinging their baskets in search of special offers.
Lee was gutted when the girl he got off with refused to go out with him again. Apparently she had only wanted him for a certain part of his body (the batteries in her vibrator must have been flat). He didn’t mind that at all. What upset him was that she only wanted it the once. He would have liked it to be used at least twice or thrice before being discarded. The same thing happened with the last woman he dated. She went to bed with him once and then dumped him. It’s set him panicking that there might be something wrong with his bedroom technique or his body…you’d sleep with me more than once wouldn’t you, Gil, my body isn’t that bad, is it? As a gay man you know about bums and I’ve got a nice bum, haven’t I? Bless, he was that upset. I said yes he did have a lovely bum and if I were female and into men of my own age, and desperate, I’d sleep with him more than once. And if I were really desperate I’d even consider fucking him before I slept. I think bastard was the word he used.
Talking of beds, Shane and I awoke to find we had a one-eyed predator in ours this morning. Dick’s dick was back and prowling around the sheets looking for company. It was a relief to have him back to his old self.
I’m been taken out for dinner this evening. My Daddies say I’ve been a very good and patient houseboy during tense times and by way of reward they’re going to wine and dine me. I’d best away, as I’m informed that my carriage awaits and Shane’s goodwill and patience has a limited shelf life. If I don’t shift he’ll swing through the window SAS style and take me out at gunpoint. As promised, dear Diary, I’ll leave you with a detailed peep through the window into recent events in this boy’s life.