Wedding Day No. 03

What is it about weddings?

"Come with me," Meg, my son's bride-to-be said, taking my hand and tugging me along behind her. At about 5'2" and maybe 110 pounds she looks tiny but that doesn't stop her from being strong and understanding leverage. Gymnasts are like that.

So I followed and, okay, if I'm being honest here, admired. She looked terrific.

She stopped behind a tiny woman who was engaged in a conversation, well, let me adjust that.

She stopped behind a tiny woman who was issuing orders to a group that I assumed were the various staff that would be involved in the wedding tomorrow. She was almost military in her demeanor as she explained the procedures following the ceremony, who would drive the shuttle golf carts, how the chairs were to be moved, and the logistics of moving a hundred or so people around.

We waited, Meg and I, and watched.

Finally, as the group started to disperse, Meg pulled me forward and touched the tiny drill sergeant on the arm.

When she turned I thought she was handsome rather than cute or pretty. A cap of white hair, cut in a classic boy's fashion, covered a long narrow head and a longish face. I guessed her to be at least ten years my senior although she was dressed almost like a teenager in a tight gingham cowboy cut shirt, form-fitting jeans, and cowboy boots. She had deep-set, very dark eyes, a straight, almost pointed, nose, very thin lips on a generous mouth, and slightly oversized ears. A deep tan and that leathery-looking skin old people get when they spend a lot of time in the sun suggested an outdoor lifestyle.

"Wilhemina Franklin, Phillip Morgan, Phillip Morgan, Wilhemina Franklin," Meg intoned in the classic introduction formula and then, "Grammy Billi, Phil."

Billi looked up at me, smiled, and said, "Oh, he'll do," to Meg.

Then she extended her hand and I could see the twisted fingers and swollen knuckles of arthritis so I took it, very carefully. My own arthritis is pretty minor, but I know how much it can hurt.

"Pleased to meet you, Plus One," she said, making me chuckle.

"And to meet you too, Plus one," I replied.

Someone came and Meg was whisked away, leaving me with my blind date.

"Come on," she said, taking my hand in a surprisingly firm grip although she did use just fingertips, "Organizing is hard work."

I laughed and said, "Lead on."

As she moved down the porch toward a door I noticed a bit of a dowager's hump suggesting osteoporosis and vowed to myself to make damn sure she didn't fall. Beyond that, she moved with amazing grace and I wondered if Meg might not be a third-generation gymnast.

She led me to the front room, blessedly quiet after the hubbub of getting ready for the wedding rehearsal.

"Be a dear," she said, "and find us a beer."

She gave me directions to the kitchen and as I went in search of libation I dodged a couple of grandchildren and unknown other children, a bustling woman I didn't know, and my daughter who gave me a quick "hi" on her way to some unknown duty. I survived the obstacle course, found the refrigerator, said a quick prayer of thanks to the Gods of Beer that it was simple Budweiser and not some craft concoction, and headed back to my blind date.

She drank with gusto. It looked to me like she knocked back about half of that beer in her first pull and I wondered if I would be sent to the refrigerator again.

And she started talking.

The woman could talk and as I listened I understood how lonely she was. It turned out she was an Alzheimer's Widow, rattling around in a big house while her husband, who no longer recognized her, waited in a specialty nursing home for his days to pass. Making matters worse, about half of the family seemed to think she should have stuck with him and were angry that she, and she laughed bitterly at the phrase, "had put him in a home."

I said nothing through this narrative, just listening, and understanding at least a little. My wife spent two years dealing with a declining mother and I had seen the toll it took on her.

Finally, she wound down. I imagine it had been a while since she had a sympathetic ear to hear her out.

"How long," I asked, holding her hand carefully, "have you slept alone?"

The expression on her face changed subtly as sometimes happens when you strike a nerve in a conversation.

"Are you offering?" she asked.

I smiled and asked the question again, "How long have you slept alone?"

She sighed and said, "Seven years."

"Nothing has to happen," I said, holding her eyes with mine, "But no one should sleep alone at a wedding except for the bride and groom on the night before."

She grinned then, a face-splitting grin showing too-white teeth.

"Oh no, youngster," she said, "You're puttin' out."

I laughed at that and said, "Naughty girl."

She laughed back and said, "You betcha."

The mood was broken, the deal done I guess, and we talked of other things then. Of our hopes for the new bride and groom. Of the beauty of this place. Of why Budweiser was better than craft beer. Of why guns are good, abortion is bad, and Fast and Furious movies are great fun. A free-wheeling conversation between two people meeting and liking each other.

One of the bridesmaids, the bride's sister actually, found us and told us to get out there, that things were starting. I helped Billi to her feet and we walked out to be directed.

In the event, it was pretty straightforward. The mother of the bride was escorted by my ex's new husband. We were given directions - when they get to this point you start, stuff like that. The father of the groom (me) followed with my new best girl on my arm. Then the groomsmen and bridesmaids, my grandchildren as flower girls, other grandchildren as ringbearers, the groom and the mother of the groom, and finally the bride and the father of the bride.

It was all pretty straightforward and when we ran through it a second time it went without the proverbial hitch.

As the second run-through wrapped up my son, ever the quick wit, announced, "Good job, lackeys, let's eat. Dinner at Randall's Restaurant. Bar is open."

Billi led me to the house where she had a medium-sized suitcase tucked in a bedroom.

"I'll need to be back here at ten in the morning for hair and makeup so I'll leave the dress here but I do have necessities," she said.

So I picked up the suitcase, grunting and making a joke.

"Jesus, Billi, I imagine they have plenty of lead at the hotel," I said and she smiled and took my arm.

It was impossible to hide what was happening, so I figured we'd just brazen it out. We exchanged casual "See you laters" with several people, Billi more than me.

Meg caught my hand.

"Don't you hurt her," she said.

"Not a chance," I said, and Billi said, around me, "Mind your own business, girl," making Meg giggle.

"You be careful, old woman," Meg said, but she was giggling as she went in search of my son.

I loaded the suitcase into the bed of my pickup truck and we started down the winding road.

"God," she said, giggling a little, "I am 86 years old and nervous on a date."

I chuckled and said, "I'm 75, granny, and yes, I'm nervous too."

"Oh, good," she said, undoing her seatbelt setting off the chime, scooting over the plain bench seat, hooking the middle seat belt shutting that infernal chime off, and leaning against me as if we were teenagers in American Graffiti. It felt perfectly natural to lay my right arm across the seat, my hand touching her shoulder. In spite of the twinge in my shoulder, I was smiling as I wheeled us down the hill and then into town.

We sat together at the rehearsal dinner, paid for by my ex, and I watched, amazed, as she ate about twice as much as I did and drank most of the pitcher of beer I had managed.

"How in the hell do you do that?" I asked.

"Do what, Love Muffin," she asked, not drunk but, as my mother used to say, "tipsy."

"Eat and drink like a linebacker and look like an anorexic teenage girl," I said.

She giggled, did a passable Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle, and said, "Good genes, boy, good genes."

We danced a few dances, sticking with the slow numbers, and Stephen danced with her once.

It was about 11:00 when she stood suddenly, offered her hand, and said, "Let's go. These youngsters will want to drink themselves silly and those days are behind me."

I stood and she led me to the head table.

She leaned on the table and I noticed the little wince as she put pressure on her knuckles but it was obvious she wanted to strike this pose.

"Stephen," she announced in that strong voice, "Tomorrow is the big day and I don't want to bother you on it," I couldn't help but notice the alcohol was finally working on her as grammar and syntax got shaky, "but I DO have to say this. You are marrying my favorite granddaughter and if I ever find out you have harmed her I will hunt you down and gutshoot you."

The table exploded in applause.

My son stood, leaned across the table, kissed her on the forehead, and said, "If I ever did something that stupid I would deserve it."

"Now," Billi said, turning to me, "Take me to bed Goose, or lose me forever," stealing the line from Top Gun," and drawing cheers and whistles from the table.

I stepped forward, and announced in my best teacher-trained voice, "What happens at a wedding stays at a wedding." Then I took Billi's hand and walked her out of the restaurant. I thought she was putting a little extra swing into her skinny ass. I know I was strutting a little.

At the hotel I lugged the suitcase along, Christ, the woman WAS bringing lead, grateful to put it on the floor of the elevator as we made it to the fourth floor.

She had been quiet and I wondered if she was having second thoughts.

In the room, I went to the closet, found the suitcase stand that's always there, and put her suitcase on it. I was careful while doing this to keep my back to her, giving her at least some quasi-privacy while she made any decisions she needed to make.

She was standing where I left her.

I covered the distance between us and laid my hands on her shoulders lightly.

"I meant it," I said, "Nothing has to happen if you don't want it to."

She smiled at that.

"Phillip," she said, "would you like to know what I miss the most?"

"Sure," I said.

"Being touched," she said, and for the first time that self-control started to break as her eyes reddened and started to overflow, "Just being touched."

So I touched her.

I brushed my fingertips across the lines of her forehead and down her cheeks. When she drew a deep breath and closed her eyes I lightly traced her eyelids with my fingerprints. I explored her like that, like a blind man feeling the shape of a new acquaintance.

Her breath caught when I undid the snap of her shirt at her neck and she leaned her head back, offering her throat as I played with the soft skin there.

When I took her hand she winced again even at the light touch as I explored bent fingers and swollen knuckles.

"Does Voltaren help?" I asked, thinking of my own arthritis.

"It does," she said and so I went into the bathroom and got the tube of the non-steroidal anti-inflammatory jel. I popped two Viagra pills before I returned and started working the Voltaren, very gently, very carefully, into those swollen knuckles.

"Thank you, Phillip," she said as the medicine started working.

I kissed her then, our first kiss, and it was a good kiss, gentle and tender but full of promise as I held her hands in mine and our lips met and held.

I undid the four snaps at each wrist and then the second and third snaps at her throat before kissing her again. Then I tugged the shirt out of her jeans, undid the rest of the snaps, and slowly worked the shirt off of her, making sure she felt the material as it slid down her arms and back.

I liked, very much, that she blushed when I stepped back and looked. She didn't do anything silly like try to cover herself with her arms. She just stood, blushing prettily, as I stared.

There was nothing to her. She was skin and bones. I could see each rib clearly as well as the xiphoid process, that little tab at the bottom of her sternum, below her bra. I would later peek and confirm my guess that the bra was a 32A and I could see how it hung loose. The skin of her belly was soft and loose, her belly button a cute little innie.

I held out my hand, forefinger pointing down, and twirled it in the universal "Turn around" gesture.

When she turned I could see her spine clearly, each vertebrae a distinct bump. The little hump below her neck was even more obvious without the shirt on. I moved close and undid the two hooks of her bra and then used my hands, careful to keep my palms in contact with her arms, as I slid it down and off. Her wrists were swollen, like her knuckles, and her elbows were the biggest part of her skinny arms.

I touched her back, starting at the back of her skull and down her neck. I lightly caressed her shoulders and her arms and started kissing my way down her spine, using my tongue to trace the shape of each bump and kissing the peak of her little hump. She responded with soft little humming sounds that I liked.

I touched every square inch of the skin I saw, gently, softly, my fingerprints barely brushing skin, just enough to make nerve endings aware of what I was doing.

Still behind her, I lifted her arms so they were straight up over her head and then very slowly ran my palms down the inside of her arms until I found her armpits, tickling and liking the way she squealed and giggled. I tugged at the few wiry hairs I found there making her giggle some more.

I moved forward, the material of my shirt brushing against the bare skin of her back as my hands moved around, very slowly, like I was moving on a frightened fawn, and lightly covered the soft skin of her belly. I slowly ran my palms up her belly until they found her breasts and my thumb and forefinger began lightly tugging her nipples.

She moaned, very softly, and leaned her head back.

"Not much there," she said, her voice barely a whisper, and she was right. Her breasts weren't much more than flaps of skin, her nipples, under my fingers, were long and thin.

I nuzzled her neck, my lips brushing the soft skin from the big tendon of her shoulder to her ear, and breathed softly, "There is much more to a woman than a pair of udders, Billi."

She turned and kissed me, her arms around my neck, the kiss fierce and almost desperate.

"Thank you, Phillip," she breathed softly.

I kissed her again and then pushed her to arm's length so I could look at her. Her breasts were hardly more than flaps, her nipples very pale, the same color as the skin surrounding them, very long, very thin, hanging under their own weight, pushing out from areolas hardly bigger. They were very sexy tiny titties.

"Lovely," I breathed drawing another soft, "Thank you, Phillip," from her.

I touched her more, my hands running down her body, palms brushing nipples before I lifted her small breasts and took each nipple, in turn, into my mouth, sucking gently, drawing little gasps from her.

I eased, slowly, to my knees, kissing my way down her body, nipping at soft skin.

I lifted her left foot, requiring her to put her hands on my shoulders for balance, as I worked that ridiculous cowboy boot off, and then the heavy white sock under it. The sock was damp with foot sweat and there was a very faint scent of some sort of foot powder. Her foot was long and narrow, oversized for her small frame, with very long toes and prominent tendons and veins across the tops. She had distinct bunions on the inside of each big toe and corns across the tops. Her nails were thick and yellow and horny. I thought they were sexy feet but I also promised myself to sneak out early in the morning and give her a pedicure before the big day.

Boots and socks off, I started on the belt and then the snaps of her jeans. I noticed that there was no zipper or buttons. As soon as I had her unsnapped the jeans pretty much fell off of her. I was surprised to see that she had on bikini-cut panties and she stood very still as I rolled them past bony hips and then they dropped to the floor.

As with her arms, the biggest thing on her legs were her knees. Her hip bones stood out starkly, the hollows inside of them making the prominence of her mons veneris, that beautiful Mound of Venus of a woman's sex, more conspicuous. Her labia, those thick, protective outer lips, were very full and thick, and almost smooth. Not waxed or shaved, there was a smattering of wiry hairs, more like, well, bald.

I looked, just taking her in. There was a clear space between her thighs, and those full labia hung a little, very prominent, leaving a thin line, the slit of her sex, on display. A very faint scent, looking back I imagine it was a residual from clean jeans warm in the sun, seemed somehow, well, "dry," and I wondered if she had something like K-Y Jelly or Vaseline in that suitcase that seemed to have so damn much in it.

I touched.

I ran my palms slowly down the outside of her thighs, starting at the bony points of her hips and trailing down across her knobby knees, skinny calves, and ankle bones that stood out sharply. Then I moved my hands so that as I moved them up I did the inside of ankles, calves, knees, and thighs.

When I bent forward to kiss her nether lips she pushed back.

"Phillip," she said, and I liked that there was a catch in her voice, "You don't have to do that."

I smiled up at her and said, "But I want to. I'll stop if you say to."

I held her eyes for a second and felt her surrender under my hands on her hips.

I bent forward and kissed her nether lips, a gentle kiss feeling those few wiry hairs almost scratchy against my lips.

"That's a first for me," she breathed, her fingers in my hair now.

But this wasn't oral sex, not yet anyway, this was still touching and exploration. I held that kiss, my tongue brushing very lightly before I pulled away and used my hands on her hips to turn her.

Her ass, like the rest of her, was reduced to skin and muscle. Behind her knees, tendons stood out clearly and I could trace the shape of thigh and calf muscles down to her Achilles tendon, another very distinct feature. I touched my way up from her heels to her ass almost like I was smoothing silk over her.

When I spread her cheeks and looked I thought of a term I read somewhere in some novel, maybe a Lucas Davenport thriller. One of the characters had described the human anus as a "balloon knot" rather than the "rosebud" term normally used. In Billi's case, I could see the balloon knot clearly in the center of a darkly stained circle. When I bent and touched that tiny knot where it protruded so distinctly she hissed, "Oh Jesussssss."

Again, though, this wasn't oral sex, analingus, this was touching and exploration so I stood and moved my hands around to press, gently, on her belly, pulling her bare skin against my clothes, and whispered into her ear, "Undress me, Billi, and I'll touch you with all of my skin."

She turned and reached for the top button of my shirt but the button defeated her arthritic fingers and I realized why she had snaps rather than zippers or buttons.

"I can't, Phillip, I'm sorry," she said softly and I saw that she was crying softly in her frustration.

I kissed tears away from her cheeks and said, "It's okay, Billi. My fault. I should have realized."

I looked around, went to the bed, and pulled the blanket and top sheet down and then I kissed her, reached down, and picked her up in the classic groom-carrying-the-bride-over-the-threshold way, my left forearm under her knees and my right under her shoulders. She giggled and wrapped her arms around my neck as I carried her to the bed and then, set her gently on the edge of the bed.