Wedding Day No. 04

What is it about weddings?

"Dad!" my son greeted me, wrapping me in a bearhug, a suitable word since he towers over me at 6'3", and outweighs me even in my new, post-Medicare Card size, by at least 50 pounds.

He's an exuberant kid, always had been, and even as an up-and-coming head bright boy at an engineering firm pushing 30 pretty hard, he'll always be my kid. Dads are like that.

"Come on," he said, releasing me.

"Hey," he said, stopping, suddenly, "Shit, I'm such an asshole. Where's Paula?"

"She's home, taking drugs and relaxing. That arthritis is all over her," I said.

"Oh, shit," he said, "Sorry. She's my favorite stepmother."

I laughed. "She's your ONLY stepmother," I said.

"Yeah, there is that," he said flashing that smile that I had always assumed got to the women in his life.

So I explained about muscle relaxers, pain medications, and arthritis.

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath, "Come on and start meeting people."

In the next half hour, I must have met 50 people, mostly Stephen's friends but a smattering of family members from Meg, his bride-to-be's family too.

A white Mercedes-Benz SL convertible pulled up the driveway in a cloud of dust. I figured I was looking at a clean $150,000 in rolling stock if it was a nickel.

"Nice, huh," Stephen said, and I agreed.

"Come on," he said, "meet Meg's mom and dad."

I walked along with Stephen as he went to the car.

I almost laughed. But I managed not to. It WAS a near thing.

From the driver's side emerged Tony Soprano's sidekick, Pauly Walnuts. He was complete with the salon tan, the silver wings in his hair, the too-tight shirt open three buttons, and, my hand to God, fucking gold chains.

I watched as he moved around the car, gym-rat arms bulging against shirt sleeves, my hindbrain making the automatic calculations. I could take him if I got in the first shot, cleanly to his throat, but if the fight went on more than 30 seconds I would be fucked. The guy had that kind of effect on me.

He nodded to us before turning and opening the door.

And a Barbie doll got out.

She was in a halter top barely covering obviously well-enhanced breasts, big enough that I guessed at 38DD. Her waist was insanely small, making me think of a book I read once that had the women of the dystopian society with two lower ribs removed to enhance the "womanly" figure. Her hips were wide, matching her bust. Her legs were long and in the platform sandals she wore, she was my height as she approached us.

"Jerry, Barbara Sue, meet Phillip Morgan, my dad and your soon-to-be in-law," he said, formally, as his mother and I had taught him. "Dad, meet Meg's parents."

We shook hands, well, Jerry and I shook hands. Barbara Sue wrapped me in an embrace and said in a breathy, high-pitched voice, "Call me Bambi," she said, "Standard spelling," she added with a giggle, "Everybody does."

"Easy, girl," Jerry said, taking her hand.

So we chatted in that awkward way of people from different worlds brought together by circumstances. It turned out Jerry had inherited the family farm, opted to sell most of it but kept the 150 acres we stood on with its spectacular views across rolling hills, and then moved on to other interests. He was a restauranteur now, with the local Taco Bell (I couldn't help but picture Sandra Bullock referring to Tim McGraw's airplane in that movie The Blind Side as "Air Taco"), O'Charleys, and Hardee's franchises as well as his pride and joy, a high-end sit-down restaurant Randall's Restaurant. When I asked who Randall was he said nobody, he just liked the alliteration.

Barbara Sue/Bambi was, obviously, his trophy wife. I did some quick mental arithmetic. My son was pushing 30, Meg about his age, so that made Bambi, and looking at her made it impossible to think of her as Barbara Sue, late 40s or, more likely, early 50s. If you looked closely, and it turned out I would have the opportunity to look VERY closely, you could see the signs of her 52 years (I peeked at her driver's license before the weekend was over) in the not-quite-erased lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth or the backs of her hands or the tops of her feet. But a combination of exercise, diet, and surgery made it look, at first glance, as if Jerry had bagged a very young girl.

I figured a careful bartender would card her.

So we chatted and got acquainted as I suppose all in-laws meeting for the first time do.

A pretty girl leaned around the corner and yelled, "Come on, we're ready." She looked enough like Meg that there was no doubt that she was a sister.

So we went out and did the rehearsal thing.

First down the aisle was Bambi escorted by my ex-wife's new husband. I was second, as the father of the groom. Since I was stag with my wife home taking care of herself, Meg's grandmother, Bambi's mother as it turned out, a woman who shared her daughter's interest in looking good, was assigned to escort me. She made it pretty obvious that she was available all night but I was being good and declined.

We went through a dry run, who went where when, and then a second run, more or less perfecting the process of getting my son wed off.

After the second, Stephen announced success and invited everyone to Randall's Restaurant for the post-rehearsal dinner.

What is it about a wedding?

My niece, well, my ex-wife's niece but she still called me "Uncle Phil," asked me, very prettily, the interest obvious in her eyes and her voice, for a ride to the restaurant. During the 20 years since I had last seen her, she had gone from being a nearly-six-feet-tall beanpole to a nearly-six-feet-tall vision of round femininity. The offer was there, and obvious, but I was being good and declined.

I did give her the ride and followed her turn-by-turn directions. The restaurant was downtown. It's an old river town with narrow streets and very limited parking. In the end, I found a parking spot for the big pickup about a block away and as we walked back to the restaurant our hips bumped from time to time, she walked that close. It was hard to decline, but I made it clear that I wasn't interested.

In the restaurant, Stephen caught me and walked me to the "Parents' Table" near the front, the front being defined by a long table where the bride and groom and the wedding party would be seated.

I sat with Jerry, Bambi, and Billi, Meg's grandmother, my ex, with whom I get along fine, and her new husband with whom, surprising both of us I think, I also got along with just fine. The dinner was perfectly standard. If you've ever been to a rehearsal dinner you were at this one. Well, the difference being that rather than a buffet and sandwiches, the food was world-class. Filet Mignon steak that could be cut with a fork was served with a tossed salad swimming in a dressing that I wanted to get a recipe for, a loaded baked potato that was a dinner in itself, a vegetable mix that I was surprised to find delicious, and rolls that were true baker's art. I stuck with beer, a fine dark beer at that, but my table mates who knew of such things declared the wine to be excellent as well.

Jerry stood, as the busboys started removing dishes and said, "If you will bear with my staff for a minute we'll get these tables out of the way and do some dancin'."

There was an awkward couple of minutes while we all milled around, staying out of the way, as the staff moved tables to the back of the room and arranged chairs around the perimeter.

"It looks like a school dance," the woman standing next to me said with a giggle.

I dug through memory banks that were overloaded and came up with a name. Tricia, an aunt or cousin, or something. She was big and blonde and working hard to hide her age, but not very successfully.

"Let the dancing begin," came a disembodied voice, and Tricia looked at me hopefully but Bambi came across the room caught my hand, and said, "Parents first."

As Elvis Presley's Hawaiin Wedding Song started a curtain I hadn't noticed across the back of the room opened to reveal a professional DJ stand.

It was almost embarrassing. Well, the beer earlier helped. But still, it was almost embarrassing the way she put both arms around my neck and molded herself to me. I tried for the classic slow dance position, left arm out to accept her right hand, right hand to lay on her waist. She ignored it and wrapped those arms around my neck like we were dates at the prom.

There was no doubt that she was well-enhanced. The crop top left no doubt that there was no bra, but her breasts against me were so firm they felt like there was. Her back, where my hands lay against bare skin, was warm and very firm. This was a woman who spent a LOT of time in the gym or doing Pilates or whatever she did to keep trim and firm. Her breath, when she spoke, smelled of wine and, of all things, DoubleMint gum. The thought flashed through my mind that this was a woman who still thought of being the Prom Queen or head cheerleader as her Glory Days.

In many ways, she talked like a teenager too. She was snarky about Tricia's looks and size and actually used the word "totally."

The music ended and when the DJ spun up Willie Nelson's version of Moonlight in Vermont my ex grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.

"She can be a bit much," she said as we stepped into a well-practiced dance. I chuckled at that and enjoyed feeling the woman I had spent 22 years with in my arms. She was more padded, the intervening decade and a half had done that to both of us, but still the pretty fox that captured my heart at one time.

The rest of the night went like that.

What is it about a wedding? I danced at least two dozen times and never asked once. It was like I was a goddam chick magnet. But then, when I thought about it, I realized that I was one of only three men there without a wife attached, while there were several women who were there for the day-before festivities and would probably have husbands joining them tomorrow.

It was about 11:00 when Bambi caught me.

"It looks like I need a ride home," she said, doing the two-hands-on-the-arm thing that women do sometimes to establish their claim.

"Where's Jerry?" I asked.

She smiled at me, her eyes showing the alcohol she had consumed and that damn DoubleMint still on her breath.

"When last seen," she said, "he was heading out the door with some bovine jailbait."

I laughed at that.

She giggled.

"Well," she said, "they hung to here," and she held her hands cupped before her at arm's length, "and there were two wet circles."

I didn't know what to say to that so I just said, "Okay, let's make our manners."

I found Stephen, himself obviously drinking pretty heavily, and told him I'd see him tomorrow. He hugged me and said okay.

"Be careful," I admonished him, "I don't want to have to get you out of jail again."

He laughed and said, "I will."

Bambi was a bit unsteady on her feet as we made the block-long hike to the truck and then I helped her make the big step in.

I was surprised, as I started the truck, when she scooted across the plain bench seat and buckled herself into the center seat belt, finally shutting off the annoying chime.

"In case you haven't figured it out," she said, her breath warm in my ear and DoubleMint stimulating my olfactory nerves, "Jerry and I have what you call an 'open' marriage."

When I didn't say anything to that she giggled, very softly, her breath little puffs in my ear.

"Oh, come on, Phillip," she said, her hand moving up and down my arm in that seductive way women seem to know on the instinctive, almost the cellular, level, "You know you'd like to see what a couple of hundred thousand dollars and two hours a day in the gym can do."

I suppose I could claim the alcohol.

I suppose I could claim the general impact of a wedding.

I suppose I could claim the pheromones that came off of her.

But, honestly, I just realized that she was right. I WANTED to see her naked. I WANTED to HAVE her.

So I laid my arm across the back of the seat and lightly touched her shoulder, firm and warm.

I felt like a damn teenager again, sneaking off to lover's lane with my high school steady date, and when I felt her tongue, warm and wet trace my ear it was suddenly 1967 again.

For the first time in, well, let's just say a long time, I got hard without taking a blue pill.

It was a pretty dangerous drive. The road up to the house was narrow and very curvy and what she was doing at my neck was distracting.

We survived and as soon as I put the truck in Park she popped her seat belt loose and said, "Come on, Baby."

Quick as a damn mongoose she slipped to the other side and was out the door before I could grab her. So I got out of the truck on my side and followed her, slower, as she giggled and skipped. I had a flash of the fantasy stories I enjoy and wondered if I had fallen with some sort of nymph that would lure me to my death or slavery or some other exotic fate.

But alcohol and hormones were in full swing. Right then I was a pubescent boy again, obsessed with sex and masturbating every hour or so.

She went through a side door and when I followed she had disappeared. The image of the deadly spirit flashed through my mind again.

"Don't get lost, Phillip," I could hear the direction her voice was coming from.

I went through a doorway and saw her legs disappearing up a set of stairs, so I followed.

And I was quickly reminded why I had moved to a house with no stairs. My 75 years along with the 30 of them I had spent smoking a pack of cigarettes a day quickly caught up with me and the last couple of steps involved my hand on the rail, not exactly pulling, but definitely steadying.

She was standing in the hall to my left, her fingers on the tie of the top she wore, a half-shirt tied below her breasts. As I watched she pulled on the tie and I caught a glimpse of well-enhanced breasts as she went through that door.

I took a couple of breaths and followed.

When I entered the room, obviously a bedroom, she kissed me and then had me sit in a wingback chair in the corner.

"Can I get you a beer, Phillip?" she asked, and when I said, "Yes," I watched her leave all energy and bounce. She looked about 20 right then.

I had my breath back under control when she returned and handed me a beer, a Japanese Kiirin in an oversized glass bottle if you care. She looked at me, smiled, and said, "You look like you need a pick me up."

Again I got to watch a world-class ass as she went through another door. I assumed it was to the bathroom. She returned in a minute with a small glass vial in her hand.

I watched, fascinated, as she unscrewed the cap, teased out a tiny spoon, handed me the little bottle, pressed her left forefinger to close her nostril, held the spoon to her right nostril, and sniffed hard. She held VERY still for a couple of seconds, shuddered, and then hissed a soft, "Yessss."

"Oh fuck," I thought, "that's cocaine."

She took another couple of deep, shuddering breaths and then held out her hand.

I handed her the little bottle.

"Bambi," I said, holding my hands out, palms out in the universal "stop" gesture, "I've never done Coke."

She smiled, leaned forward, kissed me, and when she broke the kiss her tongue slowly dragged up my cheek to my ear. Her breath was warm when she said, "Come on, Baby, please."

"I don't know how," I said, softly.

I think it was her breath, warm and moist and still that faint hint of DoubleMind that got to me as she said, very softly, very breathily, "Let me help you."

I was surprised to hear my voice say, "Okay."

"Good choice," she breathed into my ear before standing, dipping the little spoon into the white powder, pressing my nostril closed, and holding the spoon under the other one.

"Sniff hard, Phillip," she said, and I could hear the mother she also was, giving directions to wayward children in that voice, "like your nose was running."

So I did.

I felt a slight burning high in my nose, up in my sinuses, and then my world exploded in a blast of pure sensation. Looking back, it was like the best pot I had ever smoked back in college, multiplied by about 10. All of my senses were suddenly on full alert. My eyes caught shades of color and my focus was so sharp I couldn't help but notice the tiny crow's feet around her eyes and little lines at the corners of her mouth. My nose picked up the DoubleMint but also the hint of womanscent coming off of her, my own sweat scent, and even a hint of a housecat. When I took a drink of the beer to moisten a suddenly dry mouth, the beer was the best beer I had ever tasted, hell, probably the best beer ever brewed. I could hear the tiny creaks in the old house and her breathing.

And when she touched me, her soft giggle clear in my ears and the light scent of her shampoo filling my nose, every nerve ending on my cheek screamed and begged for more.

My breath caught.

I watched as she went to the headboard of the oversized bed, the term "California King" came to mind, did something with a little remote control there, and soft music, I couldn't help but think "Torch Songs." At my age, I recognized Peggy Lee's incomparable Fever when that opening drum riff sounded."

She said, in a soft breathy voice, "Let me," ((hip bump)), "Entertain you," as she pulled the top open and let it fall to the floor.

She had the most obviously fake breasts I had ever seen. They were the size of cantaloupes, her bras were 38DD as I learned later, and they stuck straight out. There was no sag at all and the silicone or saline or whatever had been used to pump them up barely moved when she moved. Her areolas were perfectly round and pale tan, just a shade or two darker than the surrounding skin, and were topped with little buttons of nipples about the size of the tip of a little finger.

She was almost a caricature of a pinup, Betty Boop brought to life.

But dammit, I still liked what I saw.

She unbuttoned, unzipped, and pushed her Daisy Duke cutoffs past her hips and allowed them to fall, joining her shirt on the floor. The thong she wore included a tiny triangle of material that barely covered her pussy and left a thin line of very black hair, putting the lie to the blonde hair on her head, that peeked out from it. Her waist was impossibly small, her belly button a deep slot just above that line of hair, her hips were wide, and her thighs were big, tapering to small, almost delicate ankles and small feet in the platform sandals she wore.

Something I didn't recognize was playing through the music system. The rhythm was a bit faster, and it was heavy on brass. It reminded me of David Rose's The Stripper, a popular radio song from my teenage years and the first instrumental I can recall getting big airplay on a rock and roll station. As I watched, she laced her hands behind her head and began dancing in that sinuous way that requires a LOT of practice. Some of the pros on Dancing with the Stars can pull it off, but no "star" ever did.

Christ, she was sex incarnate. She was the temple prostitute and the vestal virgin rolled into a single body. And it was getting to her too. I could see, with my enhanced vision, the wetness spreading on the triangle that covered her sex and I could smell her womanscent, overwhelming every other scent. The pheromones evolution provided to ensure the future of the race were getting to me and I had to adjust my pants to accommodate my erection.

As she slowly turned I could see her profile, those outrageous tits stuck straight out, and the curve of a slightly oversized ass behind completed the feminine "S" shape of her profile. With her back to me, my first thought was - "Wow. I now have the mathematically perfect definition of the ultimate woman's ass." It was that perfect inverted heart with two slightly oversize buttocks with just enough extra right at the bottom to make her gluteal sulcus, that line where the ass meets the tops of thighs, the perfect frame for that world-class ass.