It's a great day for a white wedding. Unfortunately, this bride felt blue. A lesbian wedding is no longer a novelty but remained merely a pipe dream for me until today as I stood in front of loved ones at the rustic Kentucky wedding chapel. 

Klea, my bride-to-be, was late. Disappointing but not worrisome since her tardiness was legendary. A bluegrass band was playing either Bruno Mars' "Marry You" or the romantic tear-jerker, "The Old Cat Shit in the Shavings." The acoustics were poor thus difficult to differentiate. 

We had been together over a year so were well-rehearsed for our Vegas honeymoon. We practiced last night just to be certain. It was our last night living in sin and we sinned the fuck out of it. I was her first female lover but, already her oral skills were off-the-charts. A very willing student. I graded pass-fail and when she made me pass out, I didn't fail to pop the question. 

I loved how Klea was always open to any suggestion gleaned from our PornHub binge-watching although she watched too much bukake for my taste, literally. She quickly got past her shyness. When we first met she wouldn't say "cunt" if she had a mouthful but now she curses like Andrew 'Dice' Clay at the Unemployment Office. 

My pink bouquet was wilting with each passing second. (Can you say 'metaphor'?)

I kept glancing at the front doors which never opened. An hour late now. The sense of impending doom inside was palpable. The minister cleared his throat, the only sound in the room. Even the band had taken a moonshine break, a union rule in Kentucky. Did I do something wrong? 

The passing minutes were as torturous as watching "The Masked Singer." The overhead clock ticked ominously like a death row Westclox. I felt all eyes on me as time passed. I also felt embarrassment but it was the overpowering sense of abandonment that caused my body to quake with sorrow. I heard sobs from relatives behind me as they quietly retrieved their wedding gift crockpots. 

I couldn't even look at the cheapskates. Their mournful stares pierced my soul like a sniper's bullet. Even the two brides atop our rainbow-colored wedding cake appeared to be sobbing, causing the icing to melt like someone left the cake out in the rain. Our wedding photographer had already given up and moved on to my younger, straighter sister. 

Checking my phone for messages every minute  I was like a teenager waiting anxiously for a prom invite. None came. Did she get scared? This had to be my fault somehow. I was already formulating my apology in my head. But, apologize for what?

Wanting to flee like Julia Roberts in that terrible chick flick, my feet refused to budge. Salty tears eroded my meticulously-applied makeup. I awoke today with my heart full of optimism about the future, a first for me. Tonight I will sleep with a heart as empty as a politician's promise. I wouldn't even masturbate. Another first.

Resorting to prayer like a sinner on her deathbed, I needed someone or something to ease my pain. Surely at least one deity was listening or had I chased them all away through denial?
 
Dad stood beside me, arm around my shoulder giving his comforting hug when I needed it most. When I finally managed to look at him, his reassuring smile was betrayed by the tears streaming down his cheeks. Lying my head on his shoulder I released a loud, anguished groan. The sound so startled the minister he began administering Last Rites. What did I do wrong?

Just as Pa suggested we leave, a loud commotion erupted behind us accompanied by raucous cheering. Either Klea had arrived or a University of Kentucky basketball game was on TV. Happily, it was the former. I turned to see her smash through the door like the Incredible Hulk. She had never looked more beautiful, standing framed in the doorway in her off-the-shoulder cream bridal gown. Wearing a bashful smile that melted my heart. In that second I realized I had, unknowingly, waited my entire life for this moment.

My knees buckled like a Pilgrim's shoe. Klea and I looked into each other's eyes, both as breathless as after our very first kiss and each one that followed. Dad patted my back then hers, smiling broadly. His tears had evaporated. Mine hadn't. But, these tears felt different. Relief now swallowed me whole like the whale in Pinocchio. My relatives stopped searching for Target crockpot receipts long enough to whoop and holler as we say in the Bluegrass State.

Our bridesmaids even stubbed out their joints to join us. The bluegrass band returned with a shit-kicking cover of Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing." Klea joined me at the altar, whispering an apology but none was necessary. I was ecstatic and relieved. I kissed her wanting to silence her. Then sloppily kissed her again wanting to fuck her.

Our lustful performance was not lost on my grandmother nor her senior friends who succumbed to cardiac arrest at an alarming rate, falling prone on the green shag-carpeted floor. The band seamlessly segued to "Taps." The minister interrupted the ceremony, dashing about performing Last Rites like in a MASH unit. Stumbling breathlessly back to the altar he pronounced us "wife and wife" before collecting roaches from ashtrays. The married couple's happy tears gushed and we knew this would last forever. Or, at least, until the Nevada state line.
 
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I want to thank the wonderfully kind AAnna for her help with the cover pic and its caption. I feel very fortunate to have such a caring, helpful friend.