The Wedding

OK, so one of the fellas is finally getting married. Kevon Simpson is twenty-six, four years out of Delaware State (as are we all) with a major in economics and a minor in music. We are the bourgeoisie black version of the Brat Pack as seen on St. Elmo’s Fire. At least we think of ourselves as such. We met as freshmen in Medgar Evers Hall, bonded and look to be lifelong friends.

Let’s see. There’s me (Arthur Jay), there’s Kevon, there’s DeSean Phillips, there’s Eddie Gallison. We’re the fellas. Then there’s Teralynn House and Jennifer Louis. Technically, they are part of ‘the fellas’, too, the exception being that they are women.

All of the male ‘fellas’ have tried to get wit’ both of the female ‘fellas’ at one time or another. None of us succeeded. But Terry and Jennie were so cool about it that we all ended up laughing at our relational failures and became fast friends. When Teralynn and Jennie did end up giving up the scootie (sophomore year), we all were there to make sure the dudes who succeeded were on the up and up. Hell, we were all so close by then that Teralynn and Jennie ended up describing their sexual escapades in graphic terms, just as if they were bragging, like men. They trusted us to keep their business contained within our crew. And we did.

We all graduated and went our separate ways. We kept in touch via social media. Occasionally one or three of us would get together to party and compare notes about our careers. Kevon’s wedding would be the first time all six of us were in the same room at the same time since graduation. I was looking forward to it.

The wedding was to be held in Pittsburgh, PA, Kevon’s hometown. He was marrying a beautiful girl named Cynthia Preston. Kevon warned us ahead of time that she was a bit persnickety. None of us met that description. We were, to a man, true hellions who really didn’t give much of a damn about convention. That was our bonding factor.

Eh, WTF. She was Kevon’s woman. Kevon was one of us, so Cynthia would be one of us, too.

The wedding was scheduled for a Saturday. However we all had to be there by Wednesday afternoon, in line with Cynthia’s schedule. There would be a meet-and-greet on Wednesday evening, complete with drinks and dining. There was a breakfast scheduled for Thursday morning at the Sheraton where most of the out of town guests were staying. Then an entire afternoon was scheduled for wedding rehearsal. Thursday night there would be separate bachelor and bachelorette parties. No time limits were set for these. Thursday was chosen for these bacchanalias because Cynthia wasn’t willing to tolerate the chance that things got too far out of hand on the night before her wedding. She wanted some time for damage control, if such became necessary.

Friday morning was a late sleep. Friday afternoon was another wedding rehearsal. Friday night was a wedding dinner hosted by Cynthia’s parents. Then drinks, dancing maybe, and then an early bedtime–especially for Kevon. The wedding was set for Saturday afternoon.

I’d never met Cynthia before that Wednesday. I’d heard about her and seen pics. Of course she’d consented to having Jennie and Teralynn as bride’s maids. Her sister Beatrice was the Maid of Honor. She’d invited her two best friends, Nicole and Lisa, to serve as bride’s maids, also.

DeSean, Eddie and me were groomsmen. Kevon’s older brother Mike was best man. His younger brother Ivan filled out the bridal party.

Of the ten of us, only Mike was married. I’d recently fired my girlfriend of two years. Jennie was still dating Simon off and on (it’s a long story). DeSean was too wrapped up in his career to boo up with anyone, and Eddie was too much of a hater for any woman to put up with his bullshit for long. Teralynn was still dating casually. I couldn’t wait for the six of us to get together and laugh about our various relationship peccadilloes. None of the other members of the bridal party would be invited, of course. This was just for us.

My flight landed in Pittsburgh. Kevon sent his brother Ivan to pick me up. Eddie was flying in, too, and his flight arrived an hour after mine. Rather than come back to the airport twice, Ivan and I sat down at an airport bar to await Eddie’s arrival. We didn’t really know each other (except for what Kevon had told us), and so we had an enjoyable conversation comparing notes about the groom.

Eddie arrived on time. I hugged him at the gate. He shook hands with Ivan. We headed off to the meet and greet. I asked Ivan to stop off at the Hilton so I could check in. I hadn’t been able to get a room at the Sheraton. We stopped, I checked in and took my bags up to my room. Then we proceeded to the meet and greet.

It was a joyous occasion. Kevon saw Eddie and I. He ran up and embraced us in bear hugs. He immediately dragged us over to meet his bride. Cynthia greeted us with that sissified upper-body, cheek-to-cheek half-a-hug that is appropriate for people who don’t really know one another well. She was all smiles and charm.

“Oh! I’ve heard so much about you!!”

You know the drill. We returned her “this is the first time I’m meeting you” welcome. She really was a pretty girl. Sparkling eyes. Hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a braided bun. Full lips. Cinnamon skin. A nice rack, girdled waist and an apple-shaped bottom. She had straight, white teeth and a winning smile. What’s not to like?

I dunno. The ‘persnickety’ bit put me off. Maybe she was a wild woman in bed. Kevon would fill us in on her details before the long weekend was out.

I heard an animated scream on the other side of the room. It was Jennie. She ran up to embrace Eddie and I. She said Teralynn was in the little girl’s room powdering her face.

“She must be taking a dump. She been in there long enough.” Jennie observed acerbically.

We laughed. The two of them were infamous for making inappropriate remarks about one another. Yet they were as close as sisters. No one denied that much.

Cynthia seemed horrified by the graphic remark from one of her bride’s maids. She flashed Kevon a look and immediately changed the subject.

“Eddie? Artie? I want you to meet Nicole and Lisa. You all are going to be matched up in the wedding train.”

Two women stepped forward, one black and one white. Both of them were breathtakingly beautiful. The white girl had a foamy mass of curly, crimson tresses framing a demur, freckled face. She had green eyes, a dimpled chin, and her blouse was cut low enough so that her cleavage bulged forth innocently without being whorish. She smelled of rainbows and daffodils. Her smile told me that she was used to being around black people without being fake, wiggerish or condescending. She offered me her hand and I took it.

At this point I have to admit that, as far as white women go, red hair and green eyes are my thing, second only to hazel eyes and dark skin. If anyone pulled my search history in porn sites, these two things would pop up most, in addition to hairy pussy vs BBC (I have that latter, I am enamored of the former). So I was definitely happy to meet Nicole Hanson. I’d never met a woman who met all of my physical requirements in one package. Nicole was it. She had the right twinkle and the right swagger.

Until I turned to meet Lisa Winchell.

Lisa was the dark-skinned replica of Nicole, except she pulled her black hair straight back, tapered it at her neckline, and let her curly tresses drift down into the middle of her back. I could see immediately that this was her real hair. It was not any of that Diana Ross OPH. Lisa dyed the tips reddish-blonde. But that was the extent of her vanity.

She had a clear smile, unblemished skin and brown eyes that trended hazel. Best of all, she had a nice set of tits and a black woman’s apple-shaped ass. The white woman I’d fallen in love with just a moment ago was now just somebody that I used to love.

A man should consider himself lucky if he finds just one woman who engenders the “If I don’t put my penis inside this woman, squirt, and fall asleep, I’m gonna die!” feeling. Here I’d met two of these women in a matter of seconds. I looked up and I was sure that Cynthia knew my torment. She had that eye.

She glared at me knowingly before dropping the bomb.

“Nicole and Lisa are sisters.”

Of course, my reaction was predictable: My mouth dropped open. Nicole was clearly a white woman whose ancestors arose in northern Europe. Lisa was clearly a black woman whose ancestry was probably Moorish or East African. Neither woman was surprised at my reaction. Cynthia smirked. She’d read my lust for both women to a tee, although I didn’t get the impression that either Nicole or Lisa picked up on my vibe.

“It’s a long story,” Cynthia opined. “And they get tired of telling it, so you just have to trust me. They ARE sisters. If they decide to tell you the story, that’s on them.”

I turned to the women. They smiled and shook their heads at Cynthia. It was obvious that they’d spent more than their share of time explaining the unexplainable. They took pity on Eddie and me.

“Come on, guys,” said Lisa. “We’re going to be paired up all weekend. The buffet is great here. I dunno what you’re drinking, but I’m sure they have it. Tony is a great bartender. Let’s leave Miss Prissy Pants to it.”

Obviously the sisters had a long history with the bride. In my experience, persnickety women don’t like being put on front street. Only the closest of friends could make an allusion such as ‘Miss Prissy Pants’ and get away with it.

The sisters led us over to a large set of ornate tables reserved for the bridal party. We sat down and they started reciting the ‘sister’ thing from rote (with each sister breaking in with pertinent details from time to time): They were the same age. Lisa’s dad was arrested when she was four. Seven years later Lisa was playing on a Junior League basketball team alongside Nicole when Lisa’s mother died unexpectedly. Nicole’s parents agreed to take Lisa in until her dad was released from jail. They both suggested that this largesse was because Lisa was the best player on the team. Without her the team would suck. Lisa’s dad was still in jail.

“I’ve told that tale so many times I can recite it in my sleep. You can’t believe the looks we get when people find out we are ‘sisters’.” Nicole commented.

I didn’t care. The polite thing to do would have been to ask after Lisa’s father. I was so enrapt by her personage that the responsible rejoinder never occurred to me. No matter. The garrulous sisters took over the conversation with a combination of wit and repartee that was as delightful as it was arousing. I found them intelligent, able to discuss politics, religion, sex and sports capably without uncomfortable pauses. They appreciated a good crossover dribble as much as a fine after dinner aperitif. They’d both matriculated at Duke–on scholarship. They knew all the ingredients of a Key West rumrunner from memory. Why? They’d been scuba diving there. They despised over-cooked steak and salmon.

“The only meat that should be fully cooked is pork. And we don’t eat pork.”

Kevon pulled out Cuban cigars for all the groomsmen. The sisters grabbed a couple of stogies and slid them down their brassieres. One of the bride’s maids started a discussion about gourmet cooking. The sisters asserted that the best recipes could be ruined by the use of inferior cookware. They knew a little about everything. They were amazing.

And I came to realize that both of them were “handsy”. When either of them unleashed a particularly erudite observation, they would both laugh uproariously and reach across to caress my arm or Eddie’s arm as if making sure that we caught the joke. Nothing wrong with that, but I’d had an erection since shortly after I’d met them. I’m sure Eddie suffered with the same affliction. Each time Lisa touched me I wanted to cum. She seemed blithely unaware. It was as if I was a twelve-year-old holding hands with a girl for the first time. I was THRILLED each time Lisa reached across to touch my forearm. And as the night wore on, her touches became more frequent and more tender. She would rest her hand on my bare wrist and, when the time came to draw it away, she would stroke me ever so gently with her perfectly coifed fingernails. And to top things off, as Lisa drank more, she would rest her head on my shoulder for a brief instant before realizing that we didn’t really know one another.

I went to my hotel room later that evening and masturbated like a fiend.

The next morning at group breakfast it was the same thing–a lot of laughter and storytelling by which we all got to know each other’s backstories. I did notice that Nicole and Lisa came down late and took pains to seat themselves next to Eddie and me. I took that as a good sign.

At the wedding rehearsal that afternoon Lisa and I were matched up. We held hands each time down the aisle. I was overjoyed when Cynthia went full anal and made everyone repeat the ceremonial walk over and over, obsessing over each step.

You know how, when you first started holding hands with your teenaged girlfriend, and you fretted over when it would be appropriate to stroke her forefinger with your thumb? And you were worried whether she would return this bold sexual gesture? That was me. As the afternoon wore on I wanted to give Lisa the thumb stroke so bad!! But I was sure she would think the move juvenile.

Just as I was dredging up the courage to do it, SHE GAVE ME THE THUMB STROKE!! Now I’m worried whether I was reading too much into it. Maybe she’d done it by accident? Maybe she’d stumbled and her thumb brushed my forefinger without any underlying intent?

Whatever. I summoned the courage to return the gesture. She noticed and looked to me with the most guileless and innocent of smiles. I was in love from that moment.

But now I wondered how would she respond to the next iteration of the handholding game? Should I try it this soon after the thumb-stroke? I wanted to move things along! We only had this weekend together. And we might never see one another again!

The next move is, of course, the middle finger to the palm rub. For experienced lovers this move means: “I want to fuck. Let’s get out of here.” A husband might use the middle finger to the palm move to inform his wife that it’s time for them to discreetly exit some tedious event, go home and get it on. For inexperienced lovers it means: “I want to fuck. Let’s get out of here.”, the difference being the deniability factor. If the move isn’t received properly, the person initiating the move can always say “Oh that’s not what I meant. You took it the wrong way.”

I contemplated using the middle finger to the palm rub move. I wondered whether Lisa would discern my intent. I certainly wanted to fuck her. I’d follow her into the women’s bathroom at the church if she returned my foray. I’d fuck her in one of the pews. I’d fuck her in the pulpit, if she wasn’t a screamer.

So as we’re walking the aisle for the umpteenth time, I slip her the finger. I greased her palm up real nice.

SHE DOESN’T RESPOND. SHE CONTINUED TO WALK THAT CHURCH AISLE WITH THAT BEATIFIC SMILE EXPECTED OF DEMUR BRIDE’S MAIDS.

I hadn’t expected this. By this time we were in our own little world, playing the handholding game, moving right along towards a stolen kiss, maybe a dry hump in a hidden foyer and then, dare I say it?, full coitus. I’d expected a knowing glance at the very least.

But no. She ignored my ambitious foray. Perhaps I’d gone too far too soon. Yes, that’s it. I’d overstepped my bounds too early in the relationship.

I kicked myself. It was too good to be true. This woman was too fine to be freaky. Surely she felt my finger in her palm mimicking how I might caress her vulva, given the chance. I know how to rub a palm. Ignoring it was her way of slamming on the brakes.

Crestfallen, I didn’t try again. We performed our marches and lined up properly under Cynthia’s tutelage. She left nothing to chance. She fussed over every detail, every step. If any missteps happened we had to back up and start over. Frankly, this heffah was getting on my nerves. I sucked it up for Kevon’s sake. I kept giving him the eye. He just shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s how she is, bruh.”

Finally this interminable wedding rehearsal ended. The bride still seemed a little peeved with certain aspects, but she’d only scheduled a limited time window for the rehearsal and that window was up. Besides, all of us were itching to get to the bachelor and bachelorette parties set for later that night. I dunno what the women had planned, but Kevon’s brother Mike promised the groomsmen a night to remember.

So, as we’re leaving the church, the groomsmen and the bride’s maids separated into party groups. The women were chattering excitedly, led by the Lisa and Nicole. The fellas were snickering after the manner of men who were exiting a holy place intent upon an evening of debauchery.

I was a little down in the mouth. I’d misplayed my hand. And to top it off I had to take a whizz. I’d been holding it in for hours. I discreetly stepped away from the crowd and headed for the head. Above the noise of the crowd I heard Lisa call my name.

“Artie! Artie? Hold up a second.”

She approached me and took both hands.

“You did good today. I was proud and happy to be your partner.”

Then she took my index finger in her fist and squeezed it. Twice. I looked at her in astonishment. She returned my astonishment with a level gaze. Then she took my middle finger AND my index finger in her fist and squeezed twice. Then she surreptitiously jacked her fist back and forth along my fingers as a man might do while masturbating. Her level gaze never faltered. She gave me a wistful smile then turned and walked away. My dick leaped into the stratosphere. I couldn’t see how I was going to pee. I stumbled into the men’s bathroom at the church and quickly jacked myself to completion. Otherwise I was never going to be able to empty my bladder.

You see, the single index finger squeeze meant: “Yes, I want to fuck. This fist is my pussy.” The second, two-finger squeeze meant: “And bring a big dick with you when you come.”

My penis is surging as I write this. Each time I remember that first indication from Lisa, and the way in which she chose to express it, my cock rises like a summer mushroom. And the thing is, she was so nonchalant about it! She wasn’t at all embarrassed. She wasn’t sneaky. There was a calmness-in-the-middle-of-chaos about her that I found invigorating.

“Yes, I want to fuck.”

Does it get any better than that?

I cleaned cum from my hands, peed, and emerged from the men’s room trying desperately to mask my ardor. The fellas were on their way over to the Sheraton to change clothes and get ready for a night of depravity. I tagged Ivan for a ride to my hotel. I told the fellas I would meet them at the main hotel afterward.

Arriving at the Sheraton, I immediately scanned the lobby for Lisa. Eddie and DeSean rolled up and started chattering in my ear. I didn’t even hear them. I was focused on the woman who, with a single hand gesture, had caused me to masturbate in a church bathroom like a Bronx Zoo chimpanzee.

I heard a burst of mirth and, sure enough, it was Lisa and Nicole. They were holding court amidst a bevy of beauties, several sixes and not a few fatties in overly tight clothing. These women were gathered for Cynthia’s bachelorette party. Most of them weren’t in the wedding party. They’d only come for the one night of public female degeneracy allowed in our society: the pre-nuptial bacchanalia.

I sought Lisa’s eyes. She flashed me a twinkle and continued engaging Cynthia’s many friends. Somehow I’d thought she would drop what she was doing to get back to OUR thing. She did not. I was disappointed.

Finally Eddie and DeSean started getting through to me. They were reminiscing about some shit that happened back in the day. I laughed half-heartedly. I didn’t have much to offer by way of conversation. My whole being was focused on the vision of my fingers thrusting back and forth in Lisa’s quivering fist.