The Wedding Party

After trickling a watery Americana into Brian's paper cup, the petulant server, a vending machine actually, rumbled and poured a more exuberant creamy cappuccino into Erika's cup. The Big Easy Hotel off the Florida Turnpike seemed an odd choice for a first date, but Brian (ScandeliciousSir620) picked it, and Erika (HotSummerNights1988), bringing the characteristic zeal she brought to all new projects, had packed an overnight bag.

Watching corporate accountant Brian sip coffee, Erika knew she wanted him. She wanted to unbutton his pressed Brooks Brothers shirt; rub her face into his chest; drag her nose and mouth down his smooth white torso; and smell and taste his Axe body-scrubbed skin. Meanwhile, he seemed more interested in Candy, who was standing at the reception desk urging Maurice the hotel manager to accept one payment method after another: VISA, Diners Club, American Express, her gas card, and finally Albertsons points. Erika cleared her throat and scraped her bistro chair to the left to block Brian's view, but he shifted to keep his gaze on Candy, whose curves, squeezed into leopard-skin spandex, purred and growled to him. Erika could have dropped to her knees; unzipped his fly; buried her face into his balls; and licked the shaft of his cock - he'd still be captivated by that other woman's ass.

Backlit by the orange morning sun, like a gun slinging cowboy arriving at the Last Chance Saloon, Al stopped at the entrance doors for a minor testicle adjustment. Mamacita! He ran and smacked that jungle-print ass. She squealed. He stole a full-hand grope, and right quick Candy flashed him a wide smile, but all he saw were her sumptuous Mae Wests.

In the shadows, Brian's hands, lips and sphincter clenched, and his coffee grew cold.

Did I mention that the bodacious beauty at the hotel counter, Candy Bushkin, was wearing a wedding veil? But she wasn't marrying Al her buttwacker or Brian her voyeur. She was marrying Michelle who was in the hotel loading bay single-handedly sliding a five-tier wedding cake onto a baggage cart. Balanced in the back of their Kia Sedona amidst gym bags and plastic storage bins, the lattice-work structure, topped with two bride dolls, held steady through Orlando's snarled traffic, wobbled nervously at a missed freeway off-ramp, lurched at the about-turn, and narrowly skirted disaster when Hank, Bailey and Boss were unleashed for kennelling at the Hound Hideaway, a money-making side hustle for the Coleman Federal Penitentiary. The dog-dropoff was timed to coincide with visiting hours, so they also got to see Candy's Dad, the infamous Senator Bushkin. The cake, now speckled with a few stray dog hairs, signified all that the wedding had promised before the Senator's sentencing, and the release of Velvet Hola's tell-all, "Lewd, Libidinous and Busted," still holding first place on The New York Times bestseller's list. . . Ouch!

Seeing Candy's delicious cheeks against the bamboo panelled reception desk, Al recalled their fumble at a music festival in West Palm Beach. A bum grab led to a boob honk, and before you knew it the main attraction was a sweaty, boozy fuck on the margins of the mosh pit. Candy had completely forgotten, until Al reminded her how the kiss-cam caught most of the action. Search YouTube for Green Day at the Buzzed Bake Sale in 2017; enlarge and slow down the video clip; carefully inspect the background; and you'll see them against the perimeter fence. It's not exactly porn . . . but it's still fun.

"We're here for a wedding too," said Al. "My wife's work friend Michelle is getting married . . . but hers is a LESBIAN wedding. "Watch my red rooster bring some sizzle to that hen party." Maurice's Fabio-waves flicked back as he turned to "The Big Swinging Dick" as Al would come to be known.

"Al and Edda Schellenberger," guessed the French Canadian hotel manager, scanning the lobby, but not seeing a Heather. Al who only understands Southern drawl stared blankly. Maurice snatched his card, tapped in his deposit, and offered Al a beer, compliments of The Big Easy Hotel, but only if he'd skedaddle to the bar/cafe. Al understood that bit and settled into a wicker chaise by the vending machines. Maurice tossed a can of Stella Artois across the lobby. Al caught it, scraped back the pull tab, and inhaled the refreshing phsst of carbon and hops, and just then Al realized that the sweet, vibrant, larger-than-life Candy was marrying Heather's work friend Michelle.

"Hi Brian," Candy called over. Brian glanced around for a getaway.

"He's my stalker," she mouthed to Maurice.

"We were just leaving," Brian said.

In years to come, Maurice would develop an international following as a hotelier, designer and influencer; Candy's lingerie business would put her in high cotton; and Michelle's postal route would be a long-distant memory. But, today when Maurice looked at Candy's fan of credit cards on the counter, he sighed and made the executive decision that any business at all was better than an empty hotel, and he waived the cost of the honeymoon suite.

Michelle pushed the cake into the lobby. Then, somewhere in the Amazon a butterfly fluttered its wings . . . no, let's say Anwar in Manaus gave sex tourist Shirley the wildest orgasm of her life . . . which incited a series of seismic reactions, and caused a barely perceptible ground tremor in central Florida. The cake slumped sideways three inches. . . five inches . . . eight . . . and held at a tilt of nine degrees. Calculating the improbability of this architectural marvel, equal only to the leaning tower of Pisa, Brian tripped into Heather, who in her grey shorts and alabaster-coloured hoodie, the cord of which fell to the nipples of her baggy breasts, was easily mistaken for one of the hotel's faux marble columns.

"Sorry," she mumbled.

"Sorry," he mumbled back.

"I reckon that cake could use a dose of Viagra," Al said.

Michelle turned to Brian and Erika. "There's an empty ballroom upstairs - all booked and paid for - wanna join us for the wedding?"

"Sure," said Erika on behalf of both of them.

"It just lies there limp," said Candy. She was stroking Heather's mousy hair. "You need lift, body and height." They were in the Steel Magnolia's Hair Salon, a trailer in the hotel parking lot, where hairdresser Tamara (sounds like "camera") piled on hair like she piled on muscles. . . . and hauled in cash like she hauled in body-building trophies. Her motto: There ain't no hair disaster that can't be fixed with more hairspray . . . or by turning on the ignition and trucking back down the highway.

Biceps bulging, the reigning Ms Olympia, splashed Candy's head with warm spray, applied a squirt of shampoo, and massaged her scalp so exquisitely that her eyeballs rolled backwards into her skull, and every muscle and tendon down her neck, buttocks and thighs softened to Jello.

The Airstream sank, and the aluminum door slammed behind Erika, carrying a copy of "Turn Your In-Real-Life Date Into A Happy Ending." Afterall her Plenty of Fish profile did include "open to hookups" in the long list of fine print.

"So Brian's your Plenty of Fish date. Tell me again how that works?" Candy asked.

"You write a profile, collect your best photos, and post them online. It's like saying 'I'm ready for a relationship,'" said Erika.

"I'm in heat more like," giggled Candy. She stood up and studied Erika. Under greying roots and clumps of soggy hair, she flashed a smug southern smile. "Y'all are only here because Brian's stuck on me. Go for the mascara-wearing hotel clerk instead."

Erika's thick brown eyebrows knitted as she scrolled her i-phone. She pulled up Green Day playing "Holiday" at a crowded outdoor concert. Raising the volume in increments, "I declare," Erika said. "With a Daddy in the clink and a sex tape, you could have your own reality TV show."

Tamara sucked in a long deep breath, tensed and flexed. Her muscles bulged. The shell of the trailer stretched and creaked.

"Heather-giiirrrrl, a push-up bra will work wonders for you. I've probably got one in my samples." Clenched veneers under ruby red lips and the tightness in Candy's voice betrayed the supreme effort it was taking to remain composed. Suddenly, like latex stretched to the extreme, Candy snapped. She clamped Erika's pointy chin into her vice-grip claws, and pulled her into her cold grey stare. "This is our fucking wedding . . . and it's gonna be the most goddamnedest, happiest day of Michelle's life. Got it, bitch!"

"Can I say something?" asked Heather.

Heads turned.

"Never mind," she said.

Erika, her face smarting, took a moment. "Candy," she said, "I really want what you've got."

Under the sweltering afternoon sun, Maurice careened across the crabgrass and shaggy underbrush of the Big Easy fairway - anything to speed up what had become a torturously slow round of golf. In an old Harley Davidson golfcart, Brian rode shotgun, while in the back seat Michelle was whoopee-cushioned under Al. Convinced Al was cheating, Brian had confiscated his scorecard and was now auditing his rounds.

Al bragged about his golf prowess, his renown as a salesperson at Hurricane-Hardy Windows, and his spooky ability to remember every bum he'd ever poked, which included Candy's. There were other bums too, which made no sense, unless there were women out there with a kink for obnoxious loudmouths with beer bellies, sweaty sandals, and sun visors advertising Hormel All-Meat Pork Sausages.

"I'm suffocating," Michelle complained, and she pushed Al so hard he fell out. Maurice slammed on the brakes. Michelle pulled Al back in, and they picked up speed again.

Al shuffled, shifted, and couldn't resist a scratch. "Extra balls in your pocket?" Brian asked.

"I think I picked up a bee," complained Al.

Michelle felt sorry for the bee.

And then there was a scream . . . a blood curdling, bone rattling, snotty soprano shriek. Apparently, it wasn't just one bee. There were others down there. Al fell out again, lost his footing, and rolled down a slope of skunkweed, landing flat on his back, waterlogged and stuck, in the middle of a water hazard.

Maurice hopped out, kicked off his boots, unloosened his fly, and stripped. Catching Michelle's eye, he winked an encouragement for her to do the same. Off came her T-shirt and sweats, and then her sports bra and boy shorts flew off too. They rushed to rescue Al.

Imagine how it feels when first your bum and then slowly your hands, feet, arms and legs become stuck. Without a grip-hold, you're sinking into what feels like a bottomless swamp. Mud gets into your ears and some even gets sucked up your nose. Al panicked. Hyperventilating, he heard: "Breed in . . . one . . . two. . . Breed out on da turd . . . tree. . . four. . . ." But Al didn't understand Quebecois French!

Maurice had to slap him across the face . . . hard.

Stars orbited around Al's head. Why they're naked as two jaybirds, he thought.

Maurice and Michelle interlocked their arms under and around Al's disproportionate body mass, and hoisted him Red Cross-style in a two-person seat carry to solid ground.

"I'm allergic to bee stings," Al whimpered.

Maurice called to Brian to get the EpiPen from the cart.

Brian found the first aid box; hurried to the top of the embankment; and then life-saving adrenaline in hand; he stalled. Throw it away! said Brian's inside voice. But, seeing swamp creatures Michelle and Maurice emerge from the mud, it occurred to him that for their sake . . . and for Al's wife Heather, the lovely Candy, and all those vinyl window customers with outstanding orders, he should do the correct thing, so Brian rambled down and injected the EpiPen into Al's backside. They rested for a few minutes, and then arm around Al's waist, Brian walked him back to the golfcart. "Buddy," he said, "That was a helluva way to get out of losing the game."

Maurice threw himself backwards into the shallow edge of the grey silt. Nestling next to him, Michelle felt the mud warm and silky against her skin. He traced around her lips and finger-painted circles around her breasts. Playful and hot, Michelle slid her hand down his spine, reached into the crevice of his butt cheeks, and stroked his balls. "You dirty slut!" he said as he slapped her ass. Laughing hysterically, she tried to wriggle away, but lying backwards for extra torque he turkey-winged his legs around her, and she melted into him. Surrendering into­ his arms, she basked in the glorious sunshine amidst warm weeds and slime. "You filthy bastard," she said.

Candy, Heather and Erika returned to their hotel rooms to find mud traipsed through the lobby, and should there be any doubt about who made the mess, Heather would discover a trail leading directly to her hotel room and every towel smeared in mud.

These days, celebrities and British royalty sip cocktails and nibble on tuna rolls and cobb salads on the hotel's picture-perfect pool deck, but on Michelle and Candy's wedding day, the pool was drained, locked, and out-of-bounds. Maurice led Michelle across dusty cracked tiles to the changing cabana - clean and well-stocked - but only because a week ago it had been the set for "Sex in the Showerhouse." Conceived and choreographed by Exotic Extras Adult Entertainment, it was shot in one afternoon. The service-minded Maurice Le Rochet played "Rocky."

They alternated under the shower head. Maurice soaped Michelle's pixie hair. His dick hardened as he explored and gently tickled behind her ears. The clay smoothed her skin to a pink glistening sheen. "Gimme some sugar," she cooed. When Maurice stroked her smooth armpits, she giggled, and when his hand reached into the folds of her shorn pussy and found her clit, she squeaked. Her perky breasts and rosy nipples tasted of water droplets, and in the humid spray they French-kissed.

Michelle smiled and stared sideways at Maurice. She unhooked a detachable shower nozzle. Gripping with two hands she froze as though aiming a semi automatic pistol. Maurice felt her mischievous grin on him as she circled around to his back, and then a rush of warm water excited the skin inside the back of his thighs. He playfully fought her to grab the nozzle, which then dropped, and swung ticking against the tiles. He turned Michelle towards the opposite wall and spooned into her. She pushed her boyish ass into his hips as he rubbed his rock-hard dick into her throbbing crotch. When she moaned, he pressed his hands against her mouth, which seem to excite her more. Turning her to face him, he lifted her up, cupped his hands under her bum and pumped, until in a rushed stolen frenzy he came.

A few minutes later, wrapped in a fluffy cloud of white terry towel, Michelle's sparkling eyes shone a wry wicked smile. Maurice took her hands into his to gently pick the final traces of mud from under her fingernails. Radiating joy and satisfaction, she gazed up at him softly.

"Tighter!" Candy urged. Erika responded by tugging even harder on the corset laces of her wedding dress. In the honeymoon suite, stalwart Heather, her own figure scaffolded in one of Candy's power-conceal bodysuits, clamped a tight hug around the breathless bride and, face buried between her ballooning breasts, heaved in the opposite direction. Then, stiffly bound and knotted, Candy smoothed down the ballgown skirt, tucked her nipples into the sweetheart bodice, and waddled down the hotel hallway to join the men.

Brian's face twinkled back at him through the glass of a saltwater reef tank where a couple of razor thin butterfly fish - one flirty - the other indifferent - darted and dodged each other in a grove of shimmering green coral. A velvety white fish with black eyes and pulsating black lips played tag with two neon yellow clownfish. A silvery wrasse hid amongst some sea anemones, and an eight-inch grouper with an ugly bulldog face stared out into the hotel ballroom.

Through night-blackened palladium windows, freeway headlamps flashed eerily on Maurice, who, perched on a ladder, stretched to hang a mirror ball. In a shirt open to his navel and pants so tight you could almost see his religion, he was like a figure in a renaissance fresco ascending to paradise.

Al scrubbed up real smart. The sharp crease of his navy slacks just kissed the tops of his shiny leather oxfords and a turquoise botanical shirt cut nicely to the hips. Exploring the bar, his blue eyes and baby-face sparkled like Christmas. Brian pulled down four champagne flutes, threw $100.00 into the bar box, and popped a bottle of Moet. In a ritual that would mark all of their reunions, anniversaries and holidays over the years to come, Candy, Brian, Maurice and Al shared a quiet anticipatory drink.

"Y'all ready!" Al shouted to Michelle and her entourage now gathered in the hallway.

Shania Twain's "From this Moment" and Michelle's satin stilettos announced the bridal procession. Nude under a silky jumpsuit, backless to the tailbone, Michelle's silhouette shifted and rippled with each step.

Al's pacemaker skipped a beat when he saw Heather, her body packaged in lingerie and draped elegantly in a glittering one-shoulder wrap dress.

Erika beamed at Brian.

Maurice licked a black-lacquered forefinger and flipped the pages of "Twenty Incredibly Romantic Wedding Vows," and they congregated around the brides. Candy and Michelle made their promises, and as soon as they'd kissed and exchanged rings an Uber Driver arrived with a lavish KFC menu: sixteen pieces of chicken, eight tenders, two side salads, some dips, and a mountain of fries. A class act, thought Al, Five stars on TripAdvisor.

The details and lucidity of what follows have been kept alive in private whispers, inside jokes, and drunken ramblings told from various perspectives and angles since my Mamas' wedding day when two cells united and I joined the party. Where there are accuracy gaps, I've embellished, drawing on my own imagination and adding in some memories of my experiences as a freshman on the coed rugby team at Birmingham Southern College.

To the magnetic beat of Madonna's "Vogue," Candy broke into a sequence of freeze-framed glamour shots.

"I Wanna Dance With Somebody" launched Michelle into Maurice's arms.

Heather and Erika joined the figures on the dance floor, where anonymous in the darkness and strobing light, their figures only roughly discernable by shape and smell, they dance, dance, danced to Justin Timberlake's syncopated finger clicks.

Suddenly and inexplicably . . . the music died . . . and the overhead lights came on.

The florescent glare turned Candy into a tired version of the Material Girl, and a buzz-killing silence sent sweaty bums back into their chrome and vinyl utility chairs. Thanks Al! for effectively transforming a sexy Studio 54 into some sweaty junior high school gym in fucking anywhere USA!

Brian dimmed the lights again and beamed a spotlight on Al. A boy went out to Napoli . . . Al slicked back his hair. Because he liked the scenery . . .. He pointed to Heather. "Who me?" she mimed, and she swayed seductively towards her lover like she'd rehearsed probably a thousand times before. Hey Mambo! Al was on fire, twisting, spinning, and tossing his dance partner. A blur of palm trees, flamingos and pineapples, the King of all Mambo sailed around the dance floor pulling Candy, Erika, Maurice and Michelle into a conga-line.

Working double time on the seduction line, Candy leaned in and slipped her wife the tongue. Maurice pressed in. "Can I?" he asked. Candy nodded. He brushed Michelle's spaghetti straps off her shoulders and down her arms until the satin camisole bodice dropped apron-like at the waist. As Candy nuzzled Michelle's neck and breasts, Maurice slipped his hands under her elastic waistband, down the soft curves of her hips and thighs, and slid the feather-light fabric of her jumpsuit down her legs.